


Persistence: Part 1

by JaneOfCakes



Series: Persistence [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst because it's them, BAMF John, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff because they're cute idiots, I'll add more as time goes on - Freeform, M/M, Moriarty has a thing for John, Moriarty is pure evil, Mycroft is a meddling sod, Post-Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Pre-Reichenbach, Smut because why not, Torn Sherlock, slowburn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-05-18 02:01:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14843468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneOfCakes/pseuds/JaneOfCakes
Summary: This begins during season 2, pre-Reichenbach, but quite some time has passed since The Hounds of Baskerville.This is a series with 8 parts. It is finished and I will be posting regularly, probably on the weekends. I hope you enjoy it as much as I have enjoyed writing it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson is in love with his flatmate and he wants him to know it, but how to tell him? Perhaps the perfect time will arise over the holidays. As ever, Mycroft gets in the way.

It has been a long time since John Watson has considered his flatmate simply a friend.

It started the moment they met. There was an electricity in the air when he laid eyes on the stunning man, all tall lines and dark curls and skin, so much skin! Why was it all covered with that tailored suit? When Sherlock Holmes looked up at John to take the offered mobile from his hand, John felt the air around them crack. And those eyes. Not quite blue or green or grey, almost silver, like a kaleidoscope of the universe in just those two beautiful eyes. John later decided they were most definitely silver with small flecks of grey that somehow reflected blue and green. Chameleons. Just like the man they belong to, who can put on another personality at a moment’s notice for a case.

The attraction was undeniable and yet, John “I’m not gay” Watson dismissed it. He tried to write it off as just being very intrigued with this most unusual person, who is brilliant and funny and fucking gorgeous. A man who positively HAS to be delicious when tasted and has ridiculous cheekbones. A man John killed to protect only hours after meeting him. Nope, nope, not attraction. Just intrigue.

John spent months denying it. Then a couple years. Everything was going well and then Sherlock met The Woman. John was jealous as hell, but tried not to show it. Poorly. Fortunately, the world’s only consulting detective never caught on. He really can be so dim sometimes. John kept dating a few months and then just gave up. He found himself comparing every woman he went out with to Sherlock, or he constantly thought about Sherlock when he was on a date. Or not on a date. Kind of all the time. And it didn’t bother him in the least. He loved thinking about his flatmate and looking at his flatmate and talking to his flatmate. That was when John realized…

He was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

So, John gave up dating. Sherlock did sit up and take notice of that, certainly, but never pointedly asked John why he had done it. Instead, he made more benign remarks and inquiries into John’s love life. “...that is, if you do not already have a date for tonight…” “...you haven’t brought any of your insipid women to the flat in weeks…” and the like. John mostly ignored these comments and went about his business.

There has never been any point in saying anything to Sherlock about his feelings because the man clearly does not feel the same way. Or does he? John isn’t sure anymore. Ever since Baskerville, Sherlock has found more and more reasons to touch John. Just a friendly hand on his shoulder or a brush of their hands that might have been avoided. John is almost certain that his flatmate’s eyes have fallen to his lips on more than one occasion. John is perplexed. He desperately wants to confess, tell Sherlock everything, but will he ruin what they have? Will the friendship he values above any other relationship he has ever had be irreparably shattered?

It is Christmas eve. John and Sherlock have just finished opening presents from one another, deciding it best since they have invited friends for a party the following afternoon. The evening is comfortable and warm. The flat, lit by only the fire and twinkle lights is cozy, almost misty. John sits in his chair across from Sherlock, looking at the open book Sherlock has just given him. It is a mystery novel and one that John has wanted to read for some time, but had gone out of print. The man has connections and really does know him too well. He glances up at the curly head across the rug, face hidden behind a chemistry book Sherlock has had his eye on for over a month. Is this the moment? The moment he tells Sherlock he would love nothing more than to spend his life with him doing more than catching criminals and sharing laughs?

“John?”

“Hm, what?” John’s deep blue eyes come into focus. He is still staring at Sherlock, but now the man is staring back with a brow cocked in confusion. “Sorry, what?”

“Problem?” he furrows his brow until that little wrinkle appears between his eyes. John wants to lick it. “You look troubled.”

“What? Uh, no. I...I just have something to tell you. That’s all,” John stumbles over the words, a nervous smile on his face. Sherlock places the book on a nearby table and stands, looking at him expectantly. John is not sure why Sherlock stood, but feels he should follow suit and rises from his chair. He inhales deeply, trying to find the words.  _ It’s not a big deal. It’s just that I love you. I love you so much. Everything about you. And I also want to shag you into the mattress. _ John licks his lips, sweat prickling just under his hairline.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” John blinks slowly and curses himself internally for losing his nerve. He’s Captain John fucking Watson. What the fuck.

“Merry Christmas, John.” Sherlock’s mouth turns upward at the corners as he looks over John’s face. The silence stretches into a minute, approaching awkward, especially since Sherlock’s smile has faltered and he now wears an expression of unease. “John, there’s something I need to tell you too.”

“Oh?” He can’t help but notice Sherlock’s uncharacteristic nervousness - the wide and shifting eyes, the color in his cheeks, the way he licks his lips.

“It’s something I’ve meant to say always and never have.”

“What is it then?” John swallows hard, trying not get his hopes up. Sherlock takes a deep breath and moves closer. When he meets John’s eyes, their lips are dangerously close. John can feel the heat of Sherlock’s breath as they breathe the same air, sharing its life-giving power.

“I’ve wanted to say…to tell you…how much I…” he cannot seem to finish any sentence he begins. John tilts his head slightly and licks his lips. It would be so easy to kiss him. To just lean forward the few inches between them and kiss those plush lips. “John, I…I…”

“Yes...Sherlock?” John whispers, shivering as Sherlock’s mouth lingers before his own. The end of the detective’s nose brushing his lightly. John inches forward only for Sherlock to suddenly back away.

“Sherlock is really a girl’s name.”

“What?” John splutters. The mood is entirely broken and John blinks in confusion. He watches as Sherlock shifts his weight uncomfortably, not to looking directly at him, and putting even more distance between them.

“THAT’S what you wanted to tell me? What does that have to do with anything?”

“I just thought...if you were ever looking for baby names.”

“What??”

Sherlock finally casts a glance at his befuddled flatmate and immediately bolts from the room, leaving John standing in front of his chair alone. The door to the detective’s room slams shut and locks. John sighs and lets his shoulders sag.

****

The remainder of the Christmas holiday goes without incident. As the new year approaches, John tries to put Christmas eve out of his mind and move on. If having Sherlock as his friend, his best friend, is the only way he can have him, John will gladly accept. However, his brain has other ideas as Christmas is still front and center in his thoughts. He has barely kept himself from mentioning it to Sherlock in the days that followed AND it has not escaped his notice that Sherlock seems to have no interest in discussing it. It is New Year’s Eve, only seven days later and John feels as if he is going mad.

Trying to clear his mind and focus on what is real, John leans against a wall and watches Sherlock as he stands by the window, playing his violin and looking down on Baker Street. The clock on the mantle strikes midnight. John blinks slowly, peacefully, having finally found something to quiet his thoughts. He starts when Sherlock stops suddenly and places the violin on his desk. He strides toward John, a smile quirking on his lips as he approaches. John steps forward in question, but backs again as his flatmate nears. Sherlock crowds in, invading his personal space, his back against the wall, and fixes intense eyes upon him. Completely captivated, John watches as Sherlock’s full lips part. His voice comes in a low rumble that starts a faint tickle at the base of John’s spine.

“Happy New Year.”

John returns Sherlock’s gaze, determined not to look anywhere but at the man’s face no matter how much he wants to. He opens his mouth to speak and the action is too much, as his eyes betray him and glance down at that mouth. Sherlock steps impossibly close, cups his hands around John’s cheeks, and swoops in.

“Sherlock, what…”

Sherlock presses forward until his lips touch John’s gently. They are warm and soft and perfect. All of the thoughts that normally fill Sherlock’s head suddenly stand still. The only one that seems important stems from the kiss he is currently sharing with his flatmate. The one causing a tingle in his belly that builds as the kiss continues. His eyes slip closed and  he presses a little harder against John’s lips, parting his own ever so slightly. John follows suit. Sherlock feels like he sucks the air right out of the smaller man when he gasps at being granted access. His tongue ventures out hesitantly, its tip just touching John’s bottom lip gently and for only a second before darting back in his mouth.

As their lips part, Sherlock takes a breath and relaxes his shoulders. His lips still hovering in front of John’s, he opens his eyes and looks at John. So many words are on the tip of his tongue, but he is not sure he will ever be able to say any of them. John gazes back at him with a look in his eyes that Sherlock doesn’t expect. Instead of surprise, he sees desire. Sherlock blinks in disbelief and gapes.

“Happy New Year, Sherlock.” John replies in a low whisper. Then he smiles and reaches out, offering a hand. Sherlock hesitates and then takes it in his, surprised by how well they fit together and yet, not surprised at all.

“What now? A movie?” he asks, truly baffled about what to do next.

“Jason Bourne?” John quips with a delectable smile on his face. “Will you criticize it?”

“Of course.”

“Come on,” John laughs and pulls him to the sofa.

They eventually fall asleep in front of the telly in one another’s arms.

****

Neither of them has spoken of the kiss. John has tried once or twice, but Sherlock quickly changes the subject. Now, nearly a month later, John is no longer willing to push away his frustration. He walks swiftly back from the surgery in the evening light, street lamps slowly coming to life around him. Violin music drifts down to his ears as he walks up the stairs to 221B. When he passes the sitting room and glances in, he sees Sherlock by the window, still surveying the street below. John marches in the kitchen and puts a kettle on. Then he returns to the sitting room and approaches his flatmate, ready to launch into a conversation that must be had.

“Something’s on your mind, John.” Sherlock begins, beating him to the punch. “You were walking home with great purpose. What is it?” He flashes sharp eyes at the doctor and asks warily. “It’s not about the bathtub, is it?”

“No, it’s not about the bathtub,” John answers as he thinks What about the bathtub?, but doesn’t ask because he does not want to be sidetracked. He squares his shoulders and clears his throat. “There’s something much more important and we have to talk about it.”

“Do we?” Sherlock quirks a brow, looking back at John. If he is going for confusion, he isn’t pulling it off in the slightest. John can tell he knows exactly what he’s referring to.

“Yes, we bloody well do.”

“Nothing happened, John.”

“Bullshit,” John barks, crossing his arms over his chest. Sherlock stops playing the violin abruptly and gives John a look of warning.

“John…”

“You know damn well what happened and we need to talk about it.”

Sherlock furrows his brow deeply and watches John closely, but remains silent. For a moment, John thinks he is going to say something. That all the feelings he hopes Sherlock hides away will spill forth like a damn breaking and flood their flat with possibilities. There is a light just beginning to shine in those piercing silver eyes that John would like to coax into a flame burning brightly, but it vanishes as quickly as it appeared and Sherlock closes himself off. He lifts the violin once again and resumes playing.  

“There’s nothing to talk about. It can’t happen again.”

“Can’t happen again? Why the hell…” his eyes narrowing, “You’ve been talking to Mycroft. Or maybe he’s been talking at you.”

“What if I have? He is my brother, after all.”

“Yeah, the one you hate talking to,” sighing in frustration, “If you hate his interference so much, why do you let him control you?”

The bow slips releasing a screech of notes from the instrument’s strings before Sherlock corrects and continues the song’s melody. He turns his back to John and casts his gaze out the window once more.

“It was a mistake. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

John stands behind him and stares in disbelief. What would Mycroft have to say to affect Sherlock so dramatically? The man does the opposite of everything his elder brother tells him just for spite. What could possibly send him full circle from kissing John to turning his back? John sets his jaw and wrinkles his brow, determined to find out and he knows just the person to ask.

“Right. Fine, but this isn’t over.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply and continues playing. Fully pissed off, John forgets the tea he started making and storms down the hall, grabbing his coat as he opens the door to the flat. He hears the violin stop as he descends the stairs rapidly.

“John? John, wait!” Sherlock calls from the top of the stairs, but John just slams out of the building and hails a cab as he steps quickly toward the street. It takes a moment for a cab to stop. Long enough that the building’s door opens and Sherlock emerges. Not wanting to hear what Sherlock has to say and not wanting to argue about where he’s going, John climbs in the cab and gives the driver quick orders. It starts off just as Sherlock dashes out onto the sidewalk. “John!”

After a short cab ride through London, John emerges from the car and walks swiftly into a tall, but rather inconspicuous building. Getting through security is no problem, due to his association with Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes, and the fact that has been summoned to the building before. He makes a beeline for Mycroft’s office, ready to push his way passed the man’s rather surly secretary. Much to his surprise, he finds himself staring into the eyes of the elder Holmes when he walks in.The gatekeeper is nowhere to be found.

John fixes Mycroft with hard eyes and stalks forward, imaging the man can see the angry smoke rising off his head. For his part, Mycroft puts on that smile of forced pleasantry and opens his mouth to greet the doctor. John comes to a quick stop and cuts him off.

“What the fuck, Mycroft?”

“Dr. Watson, so good to see you.” he answers in a silky voice. “Is Sherlock not with you?”

“What are you playing at?” John demands with a scowl.

“Ah,” he gracefully side steps in front of the door to his own office. “Unaccompanied then, but I see you have spoken to Sherlock about certain...matters.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Mycroft repeats, raising his brows and tilting his head slightly.

“Why do you insist he be miserable? That he be alone?” John takes an aggressive step forward. “Because you are? Maybe he wants something else.”

“And would this ‘something else’ be a relationship?” he shakes his head, “No, Dr. Watson. Caring is not an advantage and my brother knows it. All hearts are broken.”

John shifts his weight, trying to contain his fury. From everything Sherlock has ever told him, Mycroft Holmes has tried to control him ever since the death of their parents. Granted, John can understand why he came to action when Sherlock was on a destructive course, using drugs and the like, but the detective certainly does not need any such close observation now. And, as far as John is concerned, any relationship he and Sherlock might pursue is unequivocally NOT Mycroft’s business.

“I’m not going to break his heart. I won’t hurt him.”

“Won’t you?” Mycroft queries with a knowing smile on his lips.

“We’re done here.”

John turns his back on the smug bastard and stomps toward the door, only to stop and spin around to face him again when he hears the man’s reply.

“I’m only protecting him, Dr. Watson.“

“Are you?” John narrows cold eyes at Mycroft and leaves the room, letting the door slam to punctuate his exit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old nemesis appears.  
> John saves Sherlock not once, but twice.  
> Angst ensues.

All is dark in 221B when John returns. He hangs up his coat, goes to the kitchen, and puts the kettle on. He simmered down significantly on the cab ride back . The discussion with Mycroft, thought brief and likely fruitless, has given him some satisfaction. Mycroft knows John’s position and that he will not take any of his cloak and dagger shit when it comes to the heart of Sherlock Holmes. He knows full well that Mycroft is not going to bugger off and mind his own business, but it doesn’t really matter. The next step is to talk with Sherlock again and find out what he wants without the influence of his asshole brother.

Looking at the newspaper on the counter, John reads a quick article. He glances at the kettle and then stills, noticing for the first time how quiet the flat is. He flips off the stove and steps out into the hall, looking toward the sitting room. Sherlock is most likely there, pouting after John’s abrupt departure, but he would expect to hear violin music rather than silence. Of course, Sherlock could just as easily be in his mind palace, but something doesn’t feel right as John starts down the hall cautiously.

“Sherlock?” he sort of half calls. His voice sounds frighteningly loud in the quiet flat. John walks quietly into the room and surveys the area. Finding no one, he walks toward the bed and bathrooms. The hair on his arms and the back of his neck is standing, the sense of foreboding growing with every step he takes. He curses himself silently for leaving his gun up in his room. He stills again just beside the formal loo. He glances ahead to the open door of Sherlock’s bedroom, listening intently for the noise he heard to come again. It’s from the loo and sounds like labored breathing, a bitten-off moan. Tensing his body for a fight, John  takes another step toward the doorway, jerking to a stop when he hears a quiet shuffle.

“John…”

John rounds the doorway and steps inside the room to see his flatmate lying on the floor, blood oozing from a small hole in his chest. One side of his white button-down is already covered with wet crimson, making his already pale skin look sheet white. Quite a few items normally on shelves lay on the floor around him, no doubt pulled down with several attempts to pull himself up to stand or for a towel to stop the bleeding.

“Jesus, Sherlock!” John rushes to his side, dialing for help as he goes. “I need an ambulance and police at 221B Baker Street. Gunshot wound to the chest. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

Dr. Watson takes over his thought processes as John grabs a towel, drops to his knees, and presses it hard to Sherlock’s chest. The detective gasps and then groans in response.

“John…”

“No, don’t try to talk. Just stay with me. Look at me, Sherlock. Look at my eyes and stay with me.”

Doing as he’s told, he focuses all of his attention on John’s face. He begins taking in every detail to distract himself from the pain and all-consuming fear. He takes his time on John’s lips. Not full like his own, but certainly not thin. Average, he supposes, and incredibly soft. Softer than he ever would have expected. And warm, playful. Suddenly overcome with the urge to kiss them, Sherlock tenses his body to sit up, but is met with astonishing pain and John’s hands trying gently to keep him down.

“Sherlock, please don’t move. Please just stay still.”

John’s voice sounds far away, but Sherlock can see plainly that he is right in front of him. Is what dying feels like? He bobs his head haphazardly and blinks his eyes wide, looking intently at John again. He must keep his wits about him and returning his focus to John is the only way to do it. His own eyes are drawn to John’s. The slight curve of skin at the outer edge of each one. Long lashes so blonde Sherlock has never noticed their length before. How does John blink with those lashes? Sherlock’s brows raises almost of its own accord when he notices the worry in those brilliant blue eyes. Worry, but not panic. The eyes of a seasoned doctor saving his friend’s life.  _ John is going to save me. _ Sherlock gasps, wanting to speak.

“No, no. Just try to relax.”

Sherlock continues to gaze into those eyes and loses himself in their depths. Instead of being one flat shade of blue as one would always assume with just a glance at John, his eyes are a myriad of hues. They are like jewels sparkling a different tint from every angle and surface. He quietly reads all they have to offer…wise knowledge, calm and worry, focus and kindness, and something else. Love. Unabashed love. 

Sherlock’s eyes widen and he opens his mouth to speak, but the voices of Mrs. Hudson and a team of paramedics drown out any sound.

“In here!” John yells toward the hall and they hear their frazzled landlady unlocking the door. John turns his gaze back to the prone detective. Sherlock wets his lips and gasps, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to speak. 

“Shh. Shh. Don’t, Sherlock. It’s okay. I’m right here,” John whispers. “It’s going to be all right.”

“J...John…” Sherlock struggles with the words, even as John tries to stop him talking. “I...I lov….”

“Shh. Relax. Stay still.”

The words of both men are drown out by bustle of paramedics and police rushing into the room. John reluctantly steps back, letting the others take over Sherlock’s care. He watches over him closely, even as Lestrade takes a place by his side and asks questions that Sherlock can’t hear. Before long, the detective is on a stretcher and in an ambulance. In a haze, his eyes shift sleepily from one paramedic to another. Their already quiet words begin to wash together as darkness creeps along the sides of his vision. With his last coherent thought, he wishes John was in the ambulance with him and resolves to do something about it before the next time one of them is transported to the hospital.

***

John leans against a waiting room wall in St. Bart’s. His eyes are closed and his head tipped back to rest against its hard surface. It has been a few hours since he found his flatmate on the tiled floor of their loo, bleeding to death. While he struggles not to, his mind keeps playing out that moment in slow motion so he can remember every detail and every thought that went through his mind. It's excruciating. Fortunately, the sound of footsteps approaching pulls him from it. Given the gait and rhythm, he knows exactly who it is before opening his eyes. He smirks at how Sherlock’s influence is rubbing off.

“Hello, Mycroft,” he says when he opens his eyes to look at the older man standing before him. “So nice of you to drop by. Busy, were you?”

“I was indisposed when I received the news,” giving him a tolerant smile.

“Of course you were.” John turns his head away and looks toward the hallway where Sherlock’s doctor will eventually appear.

“How is he?”

“He’s out of surgery,” John returns his gaze to the taller man. “Everything looks good. He lost a lot of blood, but they got it under control and gave him a transfusion. The bullet missed his heart, so he’s lucky.”

“Have you seen him?”

“No. They’re waiting until he wakes up to allow visitors.”

“He must tell you who shot him so measures may be taken,” Mycroft squares his shoulders and says forcefully. John just looks back at him with an angry smile.

“He must? And you want me to find out who it was,” crossing his arms, “I’m surprised you don’t already know.

“I have a notion, but require confirmation.”

“Well, you won’t get it from me. I’m not your spy.”

“Dr. Watson?”

Both men turn their heads quickly to gaze upon a small woman wearing blue scrubs and a white lab coat. She smiles at them, nods at Mycroft, and looks back at John.

“Dr. Schnyder, is he awake?” John begins, his focus completely on her.

“He’s asking for you. He’s still weak and needs rest. I want to keep him here for a few days, but he insists on leaving now.”

“I’ll talk to him,” John nods. He turns back to Mycroft coldly. ”I’ll tell him you’re here. Cheers.”

Dr. Schnyder smiles at Mycroft again and leads John down a hallway of patient rooms. They talk pleasantly about Sherlock’s condition, and John gets more details of the surgery and recovery. From what he can tell, Sherlock has actually behaved himself fairly well since waking. Not counting the one time he tried to get out of bed and find John, prompting Dr. Schnyder to seek him out immediately.

The doctor stops in front of a door and John follows suit. He cannot help but notice a sign affixed under the room number. Smirking, he turns to Sherlock’s doctor.

“‘Flight risk’?”

“Most definitely. I’m putting security on this door, Dr. Watson. Tell him if you think it’ll discourage him,” she turns to leave, but stops to look at him once more. “See if you can get him to sleep.”

John chuckles quietly to himself as he watches her walk swiftly down the hall to tend to another patient. Turning toward the door, he giggles and mumbles ‘flight risk’ as he takes the doorknob in hand and twists it. He walks into the room silently, closing the door behind him. Sherlock’s eyes are closed and his skin more pale than usual. John walks to the bedside and sits on a chair. He wants to touch him, to make sure he’s real and alive, but isn’t sure if it would be welcome. He may never tell Sherlock, but the hours he was in surgery were the worst of John’s life. He looks over the man’s body and sighs, wetting his lips.   
  


“Sherlock?” he whispers. Unable to stop himself, he touches Sherlock’s large hand lightly. The man replies without opening his eyes.

“Mycroft is here.”

“Of course,” John finds the tension in his body easing at the sound of his friend’s voice. “He’s demanding to know who shot you.”

Sherlock opens his silver eyes and looks at John. They are hazy instead of sharp. Clearly, he is still recovering from the anesthesia. Sherlock tilts his head ever so slightly and he opens his mouth, looking as though he might say something very sentimental. Instead, he catches himself and hardens his gaze a bit. 

“He’ll only get in the way. My brother is nothing if not over-protective. And annoying.” He blinks slowly, his eyelids heavy. “I need to handle this myself.”

John finds himself gripping Sherlock’s fingers as he moves slightly closer.

“Who was it, Sherlock?”

“Moriarty,” his voices comes out in a whisper as his eyes close again.

John purses his lips and releases Sherlock’s hand to stroke a few curls from his forehead. John’s fingers brush his soft skin, cool to the touch. The detective’s face is peaceful and he drifts off without another word. John can’t help but smile as he leans over the man and kisses his forehead gently.

“Get some sleep, Sherlock. I’ll be back.”

John walks out of Sherlock’s room and down the hall to the waiting room. When he reaches Mycroft Holmes again, he is speaking with a man John and Dr. Schnyder passed on the way to the patient rooms. The conversation ends abruptly, the man leaves, and Mycroft steps toward John.

“I might’ve known he was under your employ. You can’t leave well enough alone, can you?”

“Did he identify his shooter?”

“No.”

“Your silence doesn’t help him, Dr. Watson.” Mycroft lets out a irritated sigh. “It will be far easier to protect him when we know exactly who to look for.”

“Maybe so, but I’d like to talk with him a bit more first,” John answers. Mycroft fixes him with a stern expression. John crosses his arms over his chest, looking even more stubborn than usual. “He more or less passed out as soon as I walked in and I’m not going to betray his confidence.”

“Very well,” Mycroft sighs again and begins walking out of the waiting room. “Just know you’re risking his life with your obstinence.”

“Just do whatever you want. You always do anyway.”

Mycroft stops just inside the hall and turns back to John, a corner of his mouth turned up. His eyes are narrow and sly.

“Thank you, Dr. Watson. Give Sherlock my best.” With that, he walks away and disappears around a corner. John scowls as he watches him saunter away.

“Smug prick.”

***

Two weeks have passed and Sherlock has nearly fully recovered thanks, in part, to Dr. Schnyder’s allowing John to spend morning, noon, and night in the detective’s room. Security is still posted at his door, but the extra hands John provides have kept Sherlock in his bed on more than one occasion. 

With Sherlock’s release eminent, John spent the previous night at their flat, getting things ready for his flatmate’s return. He stocked the fridge, did some laundry, changed Sherlock’s sheets, cleaned the place up a tad. Mrs. Hudson made the detective’s favorite muffins and dropped them off in the evening before leaving for bridge. Not trusting Sherlock to keep to his room, John kept in contact with the hospital security guards throughout the night. Nice blokes, really, when all’s said and done.

John walks briskly out of the lift and down the hall to Sherlock’s room the next morning. He nods at the guard on the way in, giving him a smile.

“Morning, John.”

“G’morning, Riley. He behaving himself?”

“For now.”

John laughs and walks into the hospital room, closing the door behind. Sherlock’s intense eyes meet his as soon as the handle clicks and he finds himself frozen to the spot. He is sitting on the bed in a hospital gown, his covers cast aside. Disheveled curls frame his face, making his cheekbones look even sharper. He wears a sour, but determined expression and he is absolutely breathtaking. John releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and steps closer to the bed, affecting a bright smile.

“Good morning, Sherlock. How are you feeling?”

“I’d be better at home,” Sherlock almost snarls. “God, John, when can I leave this appalling place?”

“Soon, Sherlock, soon.” He walks to the bed and sits in the chair at its side. “You had a major injury and surgery. You need to rest.”

Sherlock reaches for him and pulls him closer by his shoulders. John stiffens in surprise, having absolutely no idea how to take this and trying not to read too much into it. “I will rest easier in my own home with my own doctor.”

John licks his lips, his mouth suddenly dry, their faces close together.

“Be that as it may, you have to be released first and I’m not the doctor who can do that.”

“God,” Sherlock moans as he releases John and falls back onto the pillow behind. “Intolerable.”

“It won’t be long now.” John glances at the bedside table, his eye catching sight of something. “Sherlock, what’s this?”

“Hm?” He follows John’s eyes to the table, sitting up straight again. His flatmate plucks a shiny apple off its surface and holds it out between them.

“Did you see who brought this in?”

“No.”

“Was it here when you woke up this morning?”

“No.”

“That’s not possible. Security is always on your door. Moriarty can’t have come in at anytime, much less the last few hours.”

“The last few minutes, John,” they lock eyes, John shaking his head slowly. “I was just in the loo before you came in. It was his only opportunity.”

“No,” shaking his head faster, ”I know all the blokes who watch your door. They wouldn’t have let anyone in.”

Sherlock’s eyes harden and grow dark in anger. He takes in a deep breath and releases it through his nose, fixing John with a resolute gaze. 

“There is no more time to rest, John. I have to get to work.”

He starts climbing out of bed and stumbles. John rushes forward to steady him. He looks into Sherlock’s eyes, their bodies close now and the man’s heat radiating from every pore.

“Careful, Sherlock. You may feel better, but you can’t just leap out of bed and run out on a case. You’re not ready yet.”

“When will I be ready?!” he nearly shouts. They stare at one another intensely. John can feel the power of those silver eyes as they cut through to his core. Without relenting even an inch, Sherlock bears down on John and continues in a frustrated tone. “John, Moriarty was in my room. He was in our flat. I cannot continue to sit on my laurels until some doctor tells I’m ready to leave hospital!”

“All right, all right.” John’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. “I’ll speak to Dr. Schnyder. Please just get back into bed and stay until I come back.”

Sherlock looks at John furiously, prepared to tell him off, but stops. John has never been good at hiding his feelings. But, as Sherlock has conceded many times, he makes no effort to do so. John allows the world to see his emotions with no doubts or quandaries or shame. It is one of the many things that makes him uniquely John Watson. He is currently granting Sherlock full access to his feelings and the detective reads it all like a book. So often, he marvels at the trust John instills in him. Now, with the look in the smaller man’s eyes, Sherlock cannot stop from wondering if the kiss they shared on New Year's Eve means to John what it means to him.

Sherlock blinks his eyes, suddenly realizing how close their faces have become. John looks up at him with soft eyes, his breath tickling Sherlock’s cheek. It would be so easy to bend forward and touch their lips together. His head tips down close. 

“John, I…”

Their lips are dangerously close together. Sherlock’s breath is hot on John’s lower lip. He wets it with his tongue, nearly touching Sherlock’s mouth while he’s at it. Those silver eyes search John’s with an expression somewhere between confusion and desire. John tilts his head opposite Sherlock’s and inches closer, the tension between them skyrocketing.

Suddenly Sherlock pulls back and looks away, staying only close enough to keep his balance with John’s assistance. The doctor’s shoulders sag and he sighs loudly. Sherlock’s mouth tightens into a straight line.

“Very well.” He turns his eyes back on John and lets him help as he climbs back into bed, watching him as he lies back. He catches John’s hand as he pulls the sheet up over Sherlock’s legs. John stops and meets his eyes. “Please speak to my doctor at your earliest convenience.”

“Sure,” John bristles. “I’ll just see if I can fetch her, shall I?”

He turns to go, but Sherlock does not release his hand. He stops and sighs again without looking at the detective, tilting his head and closing his eyes.

“John. John, I’m sorry, but it really is better this way.”

“Why?”

“What?” Sherlock asks, furrowing his brow as John rounds on him.

“Why, Sherlock? Why is it better?” he demands. “Because we’re both better off miserable? Or maybe you just don’t deserve to be happy? That’s bullshit.”

Sherlock is pained by the frustration in John’s eyes. His feels something like a grape shriveling in the sun. For the first time in his life, he finds himself at a loss for words and completely exposed under John’s intense gaze. He swallows hard and looks away, knowing he cannot keep the pleading from his eyes.

“We’ll only hurt one another. Caring…”

“Is not an advantage. Yeah, I’ve heard it before.” John shakes his head in anger. “Look at me.” Without hesitation, Sherlock meets his eyes. “Can you honestly tell me that it’s not already too late? That you don’t already care?”

Sherlock’s eyes soften almost immediately. His lips part as he searches for words. He can’t lie. Not to John. Never to John. And John can see it all in his face.

“I’ll go find Dr. Schnyder.”

***

A few weeks of investigation later, many cases have gone in and out of 221B, all of them solved. The detective and his blogger have traced Moriarty to one place or another as well, but have not come face to face. Neither has confirmed the identity of Sherlock’s shooter to Mycroft, nor have they discussed their unresolved feelings for each other. John is beginning to lose hope that they ever will. They have both done their best to make sure their friendship does not change, but John can always feel words unsaid hanging in the air between them. 

When Sherlock returns to Baker Street, the sky is just beginning to darken and street lamps are blinking to life around him. He had been working a reasonably interesting case with Lestrade since mid-morning and is anxious to tell his flatmate about it. Expecting John to be back from the surgery, he strides into the flat, draping his coat and scarf over a chair on his way to the sitting room. To his disappointment, the room is empty when he arrives at the door. He walks in, taking his mobile from his pocket to check for any messages from John that he may have missed. He absent-mindedly plucks an apple off the side table and takes a bite.

“John,” he calls as his mobile goes back in his trouser pocket. “Are you here?”

He slows his chewing when an unexpected and unwelcome voice reaches his ears. Sherlock turns to face his mortal enemy, swallowing the bite and clenching the remainder of the apple at his side.

“Oh, so sorry, Sherlock. He’s not home yet,” Moriarty lets out a little giggle and smiles almost fondly at the detective. “Probably better for him though. Won’t have to kill him then, will I?

“James Moriarty,” Sherlock sneers. “Why do you insist upon breaking into my flat?”

“I just can’t get enough of you, Sherrrlock,” he replies jovially and then rounds his mouth into a perfect oh. “On second thought, I think I’d like to wait for your pet to get home. Maybe find out why you insist on keeping him around, hm?

“What. Do you. Want.” Sherlock spits, enunciating each consonant harshly.

“Mm. Testy, testy. Oh my. Dr. John Watson certainly does get your blood boiling, doesn’t he?” giving him a knowing look. “Is that really all due to friendship, Sherlock?”

“Whatever your plans,” Sherlock growls back, “John is NOT a part of them.”

“You’re so touchy when it comes to John Watson. He must be very special to you.” Moriarty steps closer and flashes a sinister grin. “Don’t worry, Sherlock. It just so happens that we will be gone before he gets here.”

“What makes you think we’re going anywhere?”

Moriarty cackles unnecessarily loudly as Sherlock cocks a furious brow. The shorter man takes another step closer and stares directly into the detective’s eyes with violent intensity.

“Because you’ve eaten my apple. My special apple.” Sherlock glances at it, still clenched in his fingers. “It only takes one bite, Snow White.”

Sherlock takes an angry step forward, but stumbles. Blinking as his vision blurs, he silently curses himself for being so stupid. His attempts to take another step only result in dropping him to the floor. A laughing Jim Moriarty moves to stand next to him and lords over Sherlock.

“Sleep well, Sherrrrrlock. I’ll see you again soon.“

Sherlock scowls and tries to keep his wits about him. He can guess what Moriarty has in store for him, but if he waits until John arrives home and Sherlock wakes to them both in captivity, he will surely kill the bastard at his first opportunity.  _ No one will ever harm John. Not if I can do something about it. _ His eyes close slowly, unable to wrestle them open again, and loses consciousness within seconds.

***

Roughly an hour after his flatmate arrived home and then left again, John Watson opens the door to 221 Baker Street and walks in after a long shift at the surgery. He faintly hears Mrs. Hudson saying she just heard Sherlock leaving and yells his thanks as he walks up the stairs wearily.

After hanging his coat and dropping his keys on the hall table, he walks straight to the kitchen and puts the kettle on. Busying himself while he waits for the water to boil, he picks up a newspaper from the kitchen table and starts to read the front page. Nothing terribly interesting. He abandons it and goes for the kettle when it begins to whistle. He pours the hot water into a mug and watches as tea seeps from its bag, adding a snaking amber color to the liquid. Sherlock once told him that if the stories on the front page were not compelling enough to read, the entire paper was not worth anyone’s time. John scoffed and kept reading newspapers while Sherlock merely rolled his eyes each time, but after a few weeks John began to realize that the detective’s statement was true. 

John chuckles quietly to himself, remembering the smug expression on Sherlock’s face the first time he saw John set the paper aside with an unequivocal “shut it” because John couldn’t let that face go without comment. His tea steeping, John heads out of the kitchen and into the sitting room, frowning when he does not see his flatmate already in the room. He blows a breath through his lips and considers that Sherlock may still be on that case with Greg. However, he recalls seeing the man’s coat and scarf hanging on a chair as he moved about the flat. He sits, taking a drink of tea and listening for any noises in the loo or Sherlock’s bedroom.

Hearing nothing, John’s eyes wander around the room and settle on an apple sitting on the side table next to his elbow. Clearly, Sherlock started eating the fruit before leaving it there. He momentarily narrows his eyes, thinking it must have been part of some ridiculous experiment, and wonders what else he is going to find throughout the flat. Though he cannot explain why, John cannot seem to take his eyes off the apple and Mrs. Hudson’s words echo through his mind unbidden.  _ Hello, John. Sherlock’s just gone out. _

John reaches for the apple and picks it up, setting his mug on the table as he does so. He looks at the bite that was taken and slowly rotates the shiny red orb in his hand. As the other side comes into view, small marks scratched into the fruit’s skin with a fingernail spell out words that make John’s heart go cold.  ‘I need you’.

“Sherlock. Oh shit,” John gasps and leaps off the sofa. Leaving the apple and tea on the table, he runs for the door, grabbing his coat on the way.

****

Darkness.

A slight tingle in the mind. A spark that starts small and grows until, finally, light.

A sound in the distance. A voice. Is it John?

“Sherlock. Oh, Sherlock.”

Sherlock cracks open his eyes to dim light and the dark sky above covered with stars. As his head and vision clear, he finds his arms and legs are bound tightly. He is laying on his back on something hard and unforgiving. There is a rustling next to him and he turns his head, hoping he does not meet eyes with his flatmate.

“John?”

“Ooooo. You’re so possessive, so concerned,” Moriarty smirks at him from where he leans against a thick, wooden framework. Sherlock’s eyes follow the frame to see that it is attached to the plank he is resting on. A mechanical pulley system lies at his feet.  _ A catapult. A fucking catapult. _ Sherlock cocks a brow at the vulgarity of his own thoughts. Clearly, John is rubbing off on him and he's not sure that it's a bad thing. He returns his gaze to the dark-haired man. 

“He’s not here. John. Just so you know. Seems he got home just after we left.” Moriarty strolls slowly to Sherlock’s side and grins at him devilishly. “Shame really. There must be something about that John Watson. I must admit, you have me VERRRRRY curious.”

“A catapult perched on a rooftop.” Sherlock begins, wanting to steer the topic away from John.

"Not just any rooftop. This one is special for us. All three of us. The building where your trusted doctor shot my worker bee."

"The cabbie."

"Very good, Sherlock. I love the way your mind works. We're the same, you and I, in so many ways."

A corner of the detective's mouth curves up and he fixes the man with a doubtful, yet taunting expression.

“Bringing me back to where it all began. You do have a…theatrical mind.”

“I thought I’d do something more interesting this time. Just shooting you was so blasé.” he chuckles quietly. “We’re a couple of drama queens, aren't we, Sherlock?”

“I thought it rather beneath you. But this…” he glances at the catapult.

“Flatterer.”

Moriarty lights a match and touches it to the nearby rope that holds the catapult’s arm in place. It catches immediately. Obviously the result of an accelerant. Moriarty shrugs at the look on Sherlock’s face.

“I know. I usually like to be more...old fashioned about this kind of thing, but I can’t allow you the time it would take to burn on its own. You’re far too clever for that, Sherlock.” 

"Why not just cut it yourself?"

"Theatrical mind, remember?"  He leans in close, his breath on the detective’s face. “I’ve enjoyed our game, but all good things must come to an end.”

Moriarty steps back again and studies his enemy one last time. Sherlock rolls his eyes, knowing some quippy one-liner is on its way.

“I wouldn’t hold out for your pet to save you again. He’ll never find you up here. You’re clearly the brains of the operation.”

Unable to resist, Sherlock’s lips curve up into a roguish smile and a quiet laugh rumbles in his throat.

“You underestimate him.”

“Oh, please.” Moriarty turns and begins to walk away, but stops and turns just enough to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “He does have an incredible physique, I’ll give you that. I noticed it when I strapped all that semtex onto him. He must make a lovely little play thing.”

Sherlock simply glares with ice-cold silver eyes.

“Perhaps I’ll pay him a visit soon. To give him my condolences, of course. He’ll need comforting after such a loss.”

Moriarty laughs and saunters around a corner. Sherlock hears a heavy access door open and close, locking as it clicks shut. As soon as he is alone, he struggles urgently and quickly ascertains that he will not free himself by those means. He is tied to the plank beneath his body, in addition to being bound fast, so the plank is meant to launch with him. He furrows his brow while he calculates the possibility of survival, significantly less if a weighty plank thrusts him further into the ground upon impact. 

Sherlock’s eyes dart around, taking in every detail as the thick rope continues to burn. His eyes follow the rope’s path and his brows shoot up to his hairline. The bonds that hold him to the plank are fairly close to the flame. With effort, he tries to lean close enough to light the ropes that hold him without igniting his clothing. Clenching his teeth as he strains to get closer to the flame, the ropes almost touching it, his last words to John pop into his mind. He had been about to leave for the surgery and they had found themselves arguing.

_ We have already discussed this. There can be nothing between us! … Just go. Go to that dreadfully boring surgery and tell Sarah what a terrible man I am! _

_ Sherlock, I would never… _

_ Get out! Get. Out. _

Those hurtful words cannot be the last he ever says to his flatmate. His love.

\---

Meanwhile, John steps out of a cab and looks around. As it departs, he stares straight at the building before him. He doesn’t know what drew him to this place, but here he is. It is the building Sherlock was in when John shot through two windows and into the cabbie just before the detective took his death pill. It only makes sense in Moriarty’s twisted mind to bring Sherlock back here where he first foiled the grand plan. That this should be where it all ends.

John’s eyes drift up the side of the building as he approaches it. A strange glow from the roof grabs his attention and he watches a moment as it appears to dance in the night air. A fire. It has to be Sherlock. Either trying to signal someone or burning… John runs for the building’s double doors and he crashes them open with his shoulder, adrenaline masking the pain. He quickly finds the stairs and takes them two at a time. A sickening thought follows him all the way as he runs and jumps up the stairs.  _ Don’t be burning. Don’t be burning _ . Would Moriarty have light him aflame and he is already too weak for John to hear his screams?

John bursts through the door onto the roof, taking it down with his shoulder like the one below. Out of breath and damp with sweat, he looks around for the dancing light. He rushes forward and around the corner of a brick wall that hides what must be tall air units and then stops dead. He opens his mouth to speak, but the words won’t come. Before him is a catapult, Sherlock, and both ablaze. 

“Sherlock!” he shouts in panic.

The detective whips his head around to look at John, his eyes full of fear. Another thick strand of the rope snaps and twists. Sherlock’s rolled shirt sleeve burns and bites at his skin and he winces against the pain. 

“John!”

That deep and shaking baritone pulls John from his horrified stupor and he rushes for Sherlock, ripping his own coat off as he goes. He beats his friend with it until the flames on his clothing are smothered. He turns his attention to the release rope, but its incendiary treatment continues fueling the flames.

“It’s an accelerant. A coat won’t work.”

Scowling, John dodges the burning rope and pushes hard on the thick metal platform Sherlock is tied to. It doesn’t budge, but it does lurch upward a foot or two when another strand of the rope snaps.

“Shit!” John cries. Running his eyes hurriedly over Sherlock, the ropes, the platform, he comes to only one conclusion. John climbs onto the platform, straddling Sherlock’s waist, and starts on the knots holding his friend to the platform.

“There’s no time, John! Get off!”

“I’m not leaving you!” he continues struggling with the ropes and repeats through gritted teeth. “I’m not leaving you.”

Sherlock glances at the burning release again and sees another strand about to break. It could be the last, the one that weakens the rope and sends him flying. And now, John with him.

“It’s too late!” he screams.  For god’s sake, John, GET OFF!”

“I do not…take…orders from you.”

The ropes around Sherlock’s torso come loose and John immediately lunges to the side, pulling them both off the platform as the catapult launches it into the air. It flies off the roof with deadly force and slams into the side of the building across the street, the building John shot from so long ago. Then it crashes to the ground below.

Both full of adrenaline and breathing heavily in one another’s faces, neither moves from where they fell. John looks up at the catapult’s arm. His eyes travel to the wall of the building next door to see that many small pieces of shattered brick and cement have broken off, while others are about to. He lets out a long sigh and tips his head back, eyes to the sky.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock. You do get into things when I’m away.”

“Thank you, John,” he breathes, “but you should have left the platform.”

“Bollocks. I would never…” He looks over at the lithe man by his side. Their eyes lock and he loses his breath just looking into those sparkling silver eyes. John wets his lips, three words resting on them and aching to be spoken, but Sherlock replies so quickly he cuts the thought short.

“I know. Neither would I.”

The two men stare at one another for what feels like a long time, their panting breaths getting longer and slowing. Almost as if it’s controlling itself, John’s hand reaches forward and rests on Sherlock’s cheek. He leans into the touch immediately. John’s tongue flicks from between his parted lips, but darts back in even as he tilts his head and moves closer to Sherlock. Wide, dark blue eyes search silver irises, now nothing more than slivers around enlarged pupils. Two sets of lips parted ever so slightly, millimeters from one another. John’s tongue emerges again to lightly touch Sherlock’s lower lip and just lingers for a few incredible seconds. Sherlock closes his eyes and inhales deeply, taking in every aspect of John’s scent. He opens his eyes as he slowly exhales and he speaks quietly.

“John…will you untie my hands?”

“What?” John yanks his hand back and pulls away from Sherlock to see that his wrists are still bound together, as are his ankles. He is clearly an idiot. “Right. Right.”

John pulls himself up and squats next to Sherlock to untie his hands. The detective sits up and brusquely releases his own ankles. He rubs at his wrists for a moment. John stands and looks down at Sherlock, his doctor’s eyes taking in every detail.

“You okay?”

Sherlock nods and reaches up a hand, which John takes, and pulls him to his feet. They stand together looking at the catapult.

“What the fuck is all this?” John asks steadily, one brow cocked. He meets Sherlock’s eyes.  The detective says nothing, but tilts his chin down in affirmation. He watches as John surveys the wooden structure with doubtful eyes. He cannot takes his eyes off John. God, he wants to touch him. Just take him in his arms and never let go. Sherlock’s gazes latches onto John’s lips, turned up into a small smile, and he wants to kiss them. Softly and sweetly.

“He does overdo it, doesn’t he?” Sherlock blinks and sees that John is staring at him and shaking his head, already chuckling.

“Dramatic flare,” Sherlock shrugs.

They meet one another’s eyes again and laugh together. Sherlock lets out a quiet, but undignified snort that makes them both laugh harder. As the sound of their laughter begins to die down, Sherlock’s expression soon fades into something more serious. He steps closer to John, who glances in his direction and sobers.

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock whispers into the night air. John shakes his head again, trying to be as casual as he can.

“Anytime. Always. You know that.”

Sherlock does not reply right away. Instead, he searches John’s eyes, an oddly sentimental expression lighting his face and a little smile on his lips.

“I do.” He takes another step closer, eyes dancing down to John’s mouth. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. Sherlock locks eyes with his once again. “I didn’t say it before. I may as well say it now.”

His lips part, but the words won’t come. He looks into his flatmate’s hopeful and curious eyes. Those beautiful eyes. Sherlock swallows hard and opens his mouth again. Meanwhile, John purses his lips, tongue touching the upper, and then a tight smile spreads across his face.

“Sherlock is really a girl’s name?”

The glimmer in Sherlock’s eyes fades. He begins to nod slowly and steps away.

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

“Right,” John replies stiffly. “Let’s get out of here.”

Sherlock nods again and follows John to the stairs, glad that John hasn’t turned around to see the frustration on his face. Or see him staring at his ass. His jeans fit so well, hugging him snugly. This is, by far, one of Sherlock’s favorite pairs. He finds himself staring and licking his lips. God, how he wants to confess everything and take John home and shag his brains out. 

Sherlock’s head begins to spin with anger. He wants so much to tell John how he really feels, but Mycroft… He knows Mycroft is right. His heart will only be broken if he gives it away. Caring is not an advantage. But what if it is? Damn, Mycroft! Damn him for his logic and his meddling.

“Sherlock, are you coming?”

Snapping his chin up, Sherlock realizes he’d stopped walking. He jogs to catch up and studies John’s expression, seeing no recognition of the ass-watching and seemingly no knowledge of his internal battle. Giving a curt nod, he follows the doctor to the access door and down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm going to try and post chapters every few days instead of waiting a whole week. I can't help myself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is fed up with Jim's shenanigans after the catapult and goes to Mycroft for help, much to his chagrin.  
> Jim makes yet another attempt on Sherlock's life and fails. How odd. It's almost as if it's all part of some grand plan (or game). Da da daaaaa!  
> Sherlock comes to a conclusion.

Mycroft sits at his ornate oak desk, growling into his phone. There are several matters he has to deal with and the morning has not started well.

“I don’t care. Just do it!” He slams down the receiver and turns his attention to the documents on his desk when something catches his eye. None other than John Watson stands just inside his door. His secretary must have stepped out. Mycroft continues to hold the papers where he can see them, but closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. He sighs loudly. “As much as I’d love to chat, I don’t have the…”

“Moriarty."

Mycroft stops dead and returns John’s intense stare. The smaller man’s arms are crossed and he wears a stern expression. He is every bit as imposing as both Holmes brothers, in spite of his stature.

“Moriarty is the one who shot him. And he tried to launch him off the building I shot the cabbie in on our first case.”

"What? When?"

"Last night."

Mycroft drops the papers on his desk and swipes a hand over his mouth, chewing on his lips. His eyes seem to focus on something just in front of John as he ponders for a moment and then returns his gaze to the doctor.

“Close the door and sit down.” John compiles. “Tell me everything you know.”   


“He’s fine, by the way,” John supplies in barely contained fury.

“Of course he’s fine. Your body language and eyes would be completely different if he’d been harmed, especially your eyes.” Mycroft leans to one side in his chair and balances an elbow on the armrest. “They’re very telling, you know. It would do you well to…”

“I don’t know why I came,” John rises from his chair and starts walking for the door.

“Because you know I’m the only one who can help you,” Mycroft says calmly, but quickly. John turns to look back at him, anger in his eyes. “And because you know I care about him. Doctor, whatever our differences, you cannot deny that you and I share in a deep concern for my brother’s welfare.”

John stares at him for a very long moment and finally concedes a stiff nod, but his expression does not soften.

“Please sit down and tell me all you know.”

***

John and Sherlock sit down to a dinner of curry. It is a new recipe and John can’t wait to see if it’s any good. It has been nearly two weeks since John’s first meeting with Mycroft and he has been back to see the pompous bastard every day since. It has not escaped Sherlock’s notice, though he has not spoken of it. John knows that will not last and simply bides his time until the moody detective decides to confront him. He takes a bite and looks at his flatmate, who makes a face of displeasure that looks something like a wince.

“Too spicy?” he asks. Sherlock meets his eyes and it’s only at that moment that John sees how irritated he is. John leans back in his chair apprehensively as the detective watches him closely.

“Will you be seeing Mycroft again tomorrow?” Sherlock inquires in a stiff tone. John raises his brows and answers in an even voice.

“I might do, yes.”

“You’ve been seeing a lot of my brother of late,” he places particular petulance on the words ‘my brother’. His eyes are on his plate.

“Is that a problem?”

“What if it was?” He focuses his intense silver eyes on John, his fork shifting the food around on his plate. John stares right back with a mixture of disbelief and amusement on his face.

“Are you… Sherlock, are you jealous?” He smiles when Sherlock sneers.

“Of course not.”

“You are.”

“I. Am not. Jealous.” Sherlock spits fiercely. “It’s just…you’ve never shown any particular interest in my brother before.”

John puts down his fork and focuses in on the man before him, meeting Sherlock’s eyes with an unexpected intensity. Sherlock glares back, waiting for him to speak, but John says nothing. He simply stares at his flatmate with those deep blue eyes, studying carefully while betraying nothing. John sticks his tongue in his cheek and his lips part for his tongue to dart out quickly and wet them.

“Why would that matter? You know I love you.”

Sherlock’s mouth drops, his eyes wide. Although his flatmate has never openly said the words, Sherlock had suspected for some time that John shared his feelings. He had surprised John with the New Year’s kiss because curiosity had gotten the better of him after Christmas. It had driven him mad, in fact, and now there can be no doubt of his flatmate’s feelings. But what to do now? What to say? Sherlock has no idea how to proceed.

“I…” he quickly schools his expression back to one of annoyance. “That has little relevance if you are now pursuing Mycroft.”

“If I’m…goddammit, Sherlock.”

John reaches across the table to grab the detective by his lapels and pull him close. Without hesitation, his mouth covers Sherlock’s soft lips and... It. Is. Amazing. They must be the most delicious lips John has ever tasted. His tongue sneaks passed his lips of its own volition and teases at that sumptuous lower lip until it parts from the upper ever so slightly. John slowly slides his tongue between Sherlock’s lips and touches the tip of Sherlock’s tongue lightly, so delicately, and pulls back to suck on that irresistible lower lip. A low moan slips from the detective’s throat and John can feel a small smile beneath his own lips.

John ends the kiss after what could have been an eternity, but feels all too short and opens his eyes to see Sherlock just opening his, a look of total bliss glimmering in silver and showing in his expression. Still holding his lapels, John breathes out a slow sigh.

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes,” he whispers. “You are who I’ve been looking for. I could never feel for anyone what I feel for you.”

Sherlock lets out a shaky breath and covers John’s hands with his own. He looks into John’s eyes and sees no trace of deception or regret, and it makes his heart sing. However, Sherlock still has no idea how to proceed. He must think. He needs to think about this so he doesn't screw it up. Freeing his lapels from John’s grasp, he sits back into his chair and looks across the table at him. His expression is neutral, betraying nothing and it makes John begin to question what has just happened. Perhaps that hadn’t been the best move. After all, there wasn’t really any lead-up to a kiss like that. John furrows his brow in doubt.

“Sherlock…”

“Don’t take it back. Don’t ever take it back,” his flatmate demands. John stares with wide eyes. Sherlock looks more determined than John has ever seen, but there is also a softness to his expression and suddenly John realizes that Sherlock is making no effort to hide anything from him. He is giving John full access to...what? John wants to ask him what this all means, but cannot find the words and Sherlock barrels on before he has the chance to speak anyway. “I love you.”

John’s jaw drops. His heart. Full access to his heart. Good god. John’s brows shoot up to his hairline. He must look suitably shocked because Sherlock continues quickly.

“I don’t give a fuck what Mycroft says. I love you so much and for so long.”

Sherlock stops talking as quickly as he began. Neither man moves a muscle, eyes locked. John swallows hard. His brain refusing to accept what he’s just heard, but he did hear it and Sherlock’s face is so open. He looks outrageously young and innocent and excited, like he has no idea what he is getting into, but can’t wait to start. John can’t wait either.

In one swift movement, John stands and sweeps the remainder of their dinner onto the floor. Sherlock rises too and they grab each other across the table, leaning forward until their lips are crushing together. The kiss rapidly reaches a fever pitch. John grabs the tall man and drags him onto the table. He attacks his mouth again as soon as Sherlock is on his back. Their hands are everywhere - carding through blonde hair, buried in dark curls, held against chests, skimming over taut bellies, pulling tucked shirts out of trousers…

They separate in an instant and scramble to their feet when they hear the unmistakable footsteps of their landlady on the bottom stairs below the flat.

“Boys,” Mrs. Hudson calls, “are you all right? I heard a crash.”

“It’s fine, Mrs. Hudson,” John replies, taking a step back and tripping into his chair. “I just dropped some dishes.”

“Well, that’s all right then. Just clean it up, will you?” They hear two steps descending the stairs. “You help him, Sherlock. Good night, boys.”

“Thanks. Good night, Mrs. Hudson,” John gives Sherlock a pointed look that falls from his face almost immediately at the look of regret the man is already wearing. The smaller man jumps out of his chair and right into Sherlock’s personal space.

“No. No, you don’t even say it,” he begins, anger bubbling in his voice.

“John…” 

John’s heart cracks at the tremulous doubt in that silky baritone, even as his blood boils into his throat. He steps back suddenly.

“Damn it, Sherlock!” John yells and turns away. The taller man takes a quick step forward, his hands out as if he wants to touch John and calm him, but is not sure how it will be received.

“I just don’t want us to make a mistake,” he says with the same speed as a deduction, but with desperation in his tone instead of confidence. “I don’t want to lose what we have. I don’t want to lose you, John.”

John’s lips part in surprise and he turns to face his flatmate.

“I will never stop choosing you, Sherlock.” His voice is quiet and sweet. His eyes focused on Sherlock’s and full of emotion. God, if only this beautiful man knew the extent of John’s feelings for him. He must tell him. It is essential that this surprisingly sensitive “sociopath”, _rubbish_ , know exactly what he means to John. And why is he furrowing his brow?

“But,” Sherlock begins, “I’m…difficult. And inconsiderate, annoying, an asshole.”

He goes on, but John just continues watching at him. His mannerisms and expressions, and John cannot tear his eyes away. As he listens, John’s expression gradually morphs into that of a man looking at the most adorable thing he’s ever seen.

“I know all that, you idiot,” John cuts him off with a lovable smile. “I’ve spent the last three and a half years knowing all that. I don’t want to change you.”

Sherlock presses his lips together in a tight line and frowns.

“I’m not explaining myself well. It’s just that I’ve spent most of my life alone and with everyone telling me I would always be alone. I accepted that,” he hesitates and meets John’s eyes with a soft gaze. “But now…with you… I’m not anymore and I’m terrified that if anything changes, I will be again. I don’t think I can do that. Not after being with you.”

“Sherlock…”

“I’m not bothered by being alone per se, but I don’t want to be without you.” The detective shakes his head and lets his shoulders sag slightly, his frustration and confusion showing. “It doesn’t make any sense. I solve Scotland Yard’s most difficult cases, but my own feelings confuse me.” 

John takes a step closer, reaching for Sherlock’s hands and holding them. They look into one another’s eyes and it seems like they have an entire conversation in a few seconds. “Just give me some time. I need to think. Please.”

“Of course. I understand.” John gives him a kind smile and squeezes his hands gently. Sherlock smiles back hesitantly and watches John as he begins to pick up what’s left of dinner and put it all back on the table. Sherlock joins him on his knees and helps, which brings a look of unfettered surprise to John’s face. After a moment, John furrows his brow just a bit and stops with a plate in his hands.  “Just don’t let that big brain of yours talk you out of anything. Promise me we’ll talk.”

Sherlock meets his worried eyes and quirks his lips into what he hopes is a small smile of assurance. John looks back with hopeful eyes. The sudden need to tackle John to the floor and kiss him senseless rushes through Sherlock’s body and he nearly loses his balance trying to control it.

“I promise.”

“Thanks.” John smiles again and gets to his feet. He picks up a stack of dishes from the table and turns toward the kitchen. “I’ll just clean up, so you can focus on getting Moriarty out of our hair. He’s a right pain in the ass and the sooner…”

“I love you, John.” Sherlock’s silver eyes are glued to John when he turns back to face him. “Every word. Every movement.” He falls silent and presses his lips together in a little smile. Raising his brows just a skosh and parting his lips to let a sigh slip passed, he whispers into the room. “I would really like to kiss you right now.”

“You aren’t going to make this easy, are you?” John laughs.

“Afraid not.”

“Go on then. Better get started.”

Sherlock nods as John walks to the kitchen giggling. And right then, he decides he must spend the rest of his life making John Watson giggle exactly that way.

***

The following night, Sherlock enters the street door of 221 and starts up the stairs to the flat he shares with 1.) Dr. John Watson, who should have already returned from an extended shift. Sherlock hurries up and into the flat with a skip in his step, in spite of himself. He sees John’s coat hanging in its usual place by the door when he enters and closes it behind. They have not shared a kiss since the one that found them both flat on the dining table and Sherlock hopes to convince John that more kissing is now required of their relationship.

“John, I hope you haven’t eaten yet,” Sherlock calls out into the flat as he walks toward the kitchen. He pauses briefly in the doorway of the sitting room, catching sight of John asleep on the sofa. He lifts the two brown bags he’s carrying and offers a grin. “I brought takeaway. Your favorite.”

Believing he has spoken loudly enough to wake the sleeping doctor, Sherlock walks into the kitchen and places the bags on the counter. He starts getting out plates and cutlery, and even puts the kettle on, talking to John all the while. 

“I’ve been with Lestrade on a case all day. He rang just after you left this morning. It was complicated, but a fairly simple deduction. I think you would’ve enjoyed it. It had several elements that you would find very intriguing. Strangely, it seems to be connected to Moriarty and has the definite potential to lead me to…” His speech slows and stops as it occurs to him that John has not come into the kitchen or even said a word. He steps away from the counter and looks toward the door. “John?”

Hearing nothing, Sherlock leaves the kitchen and peeks into the sitting room where John still lies prone on the sofa.

“John?”

As he walks toward his flatmate, he begins to take stock of everything in the room for any sign of discord. He stops for a split-second as he nears the sofa. The table is further away than usual and rug beneath it is wet. The air smells of tea. His eyes widen in fear when he catches sight of a mildly treated laceration above John's left eye. He falls to his knees and presses two fingers to John’s throat while also watching for the normal rise and fall of his chest and breathes a sigh of relief when he finds both.

“John,” he almost whispers and brushes the fringe from John’s forehead. He moves to stand, but a hand claps down on his shoulder roughly and the cold barrel of a gun presses hard to the back of his neck.

“You needn’t whisper, Sherlock,” Moriarty says loudly. “You won’t wake him. Your pet is going to have a nice, long nap. Now be a dear and raise your hands.”

“What did you do to him?” Sherlock asks in a fierce voice, raising his hands so Moriarty can see them.

“Drugged his tea. It really was very easy. He’s a creature of habit.” The shorter man leans closer to Sherlock’s curls and inquires. “How does that translate into other aspects of his life? Tell me, does he keep the bedroom exciting?”

Sherlock snaps his head around and scowls, impatient with anger. Moriarty presses the gun harder into his skin and forces him to face John once more.

“What do you want?”

“Don’t interrupt me, Sherlock. I know how dear your doctor is to you and I wouldn’t want to hurt him just to make a point.” He grins sinisterly. “But I will.”

“You don’t want to hurt him?” Sherlock bursts sarcastically and then continues in a low growl. “His head was some kind of accident, I suppose.”

“My! You are protective, aren’t you?” Moriarty cries out in pure delight. “How adorable.”

Sherlock glares, his lips in a thin line. Moriarty shrugs in response.

“He hit the table. I thought he’d passed out, but he was faking. I think he knew he wasn’t alone.” Jim clicks his tongue. “We had a little tousle. I’m very surprised, Sherlock. Truly, I am. I thought he was just a pretty face, but he’s very useful, isn’t he?

Moriarty continues conversationally as he pulls something from his pocket. Sherlock can’t quite see what he is doing, only able to turn his head fractionally in his attacker’s direction.

“I had a little trouble getting him back on the sofa. Had to wrap my arms around that gorgeous chest. All those muscles! He’s so full of surprises. I bet there’s nothing like feeling that body on top of you.” There is a smile in his voice that makes Sherlock’s stomach turn. “Or under you. I know I’ve said it before, but I really mean it this time. I can see why you keep your Dr. Watson close at hand. Smart and sexy,” he inhales slowly through puckered lips, his eyes on John. “I just can’t get over that body now that I’ve seen it up close and personal. Now that I’ve had my hands on him.”

Moriarty draws out that last sentence, taunting and making it sound as lewd as possible. Furious, Sherlock jerks his head suddenly and turns his body toward Moriarty only to stop just as quickly when he sees the gun trained on John, rather than digging a hole in his neck.

“Behave, Sherlock. I’d hate to inflict more damage to your pet.”

Obediently, Sherlock slowly raises his hands again. He fixes dark eyes on the man before him, ignoring every murderous thought that enters his mind.

“What. Do. You. Want,” he growls.

Ignoring him, Moriarty steps closer to Sherlock and touches his face. When he continues his diatribe, he does to Sherlock what he’s saying as he says it.

“On those quiet nights at home. Do you tilt his head and move in close, so you can smell the scent of him?” He inhales deeply at the detective’s curls. “He’s delicious, isn’t he, Sherlock?”

His patience broken and temper flaring, Sherlock elbows Moriarty swiftly in the gut right as he stabs Sherlock in the throat with a syringe. Both double over onto the floor. Sherlock gets to his knees first and moves toward his enemy, ready to wring his neck, but falls to the floor instead. His head is spinning. Moriarty crowds in close, already looking blurry to Sherlock’s hazy eyes. 

“You can’t win," he mumbles tensely. His eyes close, plunging him into a darkness where Moriarty’s voices echoes loudly. 

“I already have.”

***

Two voices come out of the darkness. Sherlock looks toward them, but isn’t sure his head actually moved. He can’t feel his body. Is he floating? He is decidedly not in 221B. The voices are getting louder. One of them is clearly John. And the other…Mycroft. Bloody Mycroft.

_ “Yeah, I know what the results are. I read them myself,“ John’s voice says in an irritated tone. _

_ “Then you are aware of the situation,” replies Mycroft. _

_ “I just can’t believe he’s start using again, or that he would drug me to get away with it. If that’s what you’re STILL suggesting.” _

_ “Maybe he hasn’t,” Mycroft’s voice is doubtful and Sherlock can practically hear him shrugging. “You said it yourself. Your head wound had to come from somewhere. Sherlock certainly wouldn’t have harmed you...intentionally.” _

_ “Damn it, Mycroft,” John sounds very angry now. Sherlock can feel his lips turning up slowly. “I don’t believe Sherlock did it on purpose or accidentally and if you...Shit. His eyes are open! Sherlock, can you hear me _ ?”

\------

Sherlock opens his eyes again. The darkness is gone, replaced by a sharp yellow light that burns his eyes. He blinks a few times against it, his eyes watering. A dark spot floats into his vision. 

“John?” his voice is barely a whisper, but the dark spot moves. 

“Sherlock, you’re in hospital.” It’s Mycroft.

“God.” Sherlock's eyes roll back.

“It was an overdose,” his brother continues. Sherlock tries to keep his eyes open, but they traitorously slip shut and will not listen to his brain anymore. He hears Mycroft’s voice before he loses consciousness once more. “Sherlock?”

\----

Sherlock opens his eyes to see stark fluorescent lights above. He immediately recognizes them as ‘hospital’ and the two times he regained some semblance of awareness come back to him. He rolls his eyes. 

“Oh no. Not again,” he mumbles in a baritone that sounds far deeper than usual. He glances at the heart monitor and IV drip next to him and sighs. He spots a calendar on the wall and frowns, wondering what day it is and how long he has been here. He lets his eyes roam around the room while piecing together what he remembers from before he blacked out. Typical hospital room, but on his right is a very welcome sight.

Sherlock smiles in an instant and puts his hand gently over John’s, careful not to wake him. He watches him quietly. The steadiness of his breaths, the slight twitches of his body. His body…Everything comes to the forefront of Sherlock’s mind in a rush, especially Moriarty’s threats and innuendo. The detective grips John’s hand tightly and winces when his voice sounds in a gravely panic.

“John!”

The doctor starts awake and stares at Sherlock, completely unnerved for a moment. His features relax when he sees his flatmate awake, but his mouth turns down again in worry. Sherlock can only imagine the image of his own terrified face and curses himself for not thinking before acting. Pulling himself together quickly, he touches John’s face gently.

“Are you all right?” He runs his hand down to John’s cheek, taking stock of the bandage above his eye.

“God, Sherlock,” John says as he wraps his arms around the detective. “Why would you ask me... You’ve been out for…” He pulls away and puts a hand on either side of Sherlock’s face, looking into his eyes. “Are you okay? How do you feel?”

“Fine, John. I’m fine.” Sherlock slides his hands over John’s and gazes at him lovingly. “How long have I been unconscious?”

“Two days. We weren’t sure you’d make it through the first. There were a lot of drugs in your system.“

“The fact that I did says Moriarty isn’t really trying,” Sherlock mutters. “At least, not yet."

"He did this to you?"

"He’s trying to make a point,” Sherlock says, nodding.

“A point?” John replies, his voice full of confusion. His fingers tighten around Sherlock’s cheeks gently as if he knows he should let go to keep things from getting awkward but doesn’t want to.

“Yes.”

“You mean like he could kill you whenever he wants, however he wants.”

It isn’t a question. Sherlock looks at John carefully. His brows are deeply furrowed and the tiny lines on either side of his dull eyes turn down in concern and exhaustion. His face looks pale, which is only something Sherlock has witnessed when the man is ill. But he is not ill. He is worried. Perhaps sick with worry, as one might say, for Sherlock. The detective tightens his own grip on John’s hands and looks at him with a tender expression. John seems to understand and a bit of light returns to his eyes. Sherlock wants to hold him. He wants to press a kiss to his forehead and tell him he is fine. It’ll all be fine. But this is not the time to mince words. Moriarty is on a rampage and ending Sherlock’s life appears to be the end game. More importantly to Sherlock, however, is the new knowledge that Moriarty is a danger to John and that cannot be tolerated. He must be dealt with and swiftly.

“Yes,” Sherlock responds to John’s assertion. “So why didn’t he just do it? What is his game? He’d already drugged you. There was no one to stop him. A well-timed threat to you and forcing me to cooperate was easy.” He huffs an angry breath. “Too easy.”

“Caring is not an advantage?” John asks with a frown. Sherlock looks at him as he lets his head turn down, releasing a sad sigh. The detective takes a hand off one of John’s and tips the man’s chin up with two fingers, their eyes meeting in a moment of unguarded silence.

“No, it's not.”

John looks away, unable to hide his disappointment. Sherlock uses the two fingers under his chin to gently turn his head back. Their eyes meet again. All of Sherlock’s walls are down and his eyes are so full of feeling they peel away the layers of John’s doubt and dismay like the layers of an onion. He looks deeper into that sparkling silver gaze than he ever has before and it takes his breath away, even before Sherlock speaks.

“Caring is not an advantage… Caring is everything.”

“Oh,” John gasps. The word is almost inaudible, more like a breath. Sherlock cups John’s face with his hands and pulls him close. Their lips touch, tongues sliding against one another. When they part, John’s eyes are glistening.

“I love you, John. If you are my weakness, then so be it.”

“I don’t have to be just a weakness, Sherlock,” John shakes his head.

“And yet you are,” comes Mycroft’s voice from behind. They turn to see Mycroft leaning against the wall next to the door.

“How long have you been there?” John inquires, already sounding irritable.

“Get out,” Sherlock’s deep voice booms. John takes a step away from his detective and toward the other man. Mycroft gives him a trite smile.

“John, would you mind giving my brother and I a few minutes alone?”

“No,” Sherlock spouts before John can speak. The elder Holmes barely acknowledges his brother’s answer and focuses on John instead.

“There is something he and I need to discuss, and you have something to attend to down the hall.”

A moment of silence follows as the two men stare one another down. If Sherlock didn’t know better, he would think they were communicating somehow. Suddenly, John stands.

“All right.”

“John, you don’t have to…” Sherlock catches his hand to keep him from leaving. John stops and closes his other hand over the detective’s long fingers and gives him a comforting smile.

“It’s fine. I’ll be right back.” He pats Sherlock’s hand and then walks out of the room. As soon as the door has closed behind John, Mycroft steps close to the bed. Sherlock puts on a sour expression and stares straight ahead.

“End this now, Sherlock.”

“Don’t be tiresome, Mycroft,” Sherlock snaps. Mycroft moves swiftly forward and gets right up in Sherlock's business. The startled detective looks at him with wide eyes, still glaring daggers.

“You will be killed, Sherlock! And John with you,” Mycroft leans back again to give the younger Holmes some space once again. “Like it or not, he is a weakness and that is something you cannot afford.”

“You think I don’t know that?! You think I haven’t thought this through?” the detective snaps again, more vehemently this time. “I know the danger we’re both in. Anything that may happen to John is my fault.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Pretending I don’t care for him won’t help,” Sherlock continues, ignoring his brother. “Moriarty knows. He knows exactly what I feel. Exactly what I want our relationship to be. Even if John was not of the same mind, Moriarty would still use him against me.”

“There may be an alternative.”

“Not an acceptable one.” Sherlock stares at the older man with hard eyes. “I love him, Mycroft. I love him. I’m not going to pretend anymore.”

Mycroft watches his baby brother carefully. He has always been stubborn, even before their parents died, but even more so after. Then again...no. It wasn’t stubbornness as much as it was defiance. Sherlock was angry that their parents were gone, but seemed to take great offense at Mycroft’s taking over their role. They were friends once. That friendship would never be the same. Yet, Mycroft had promised his father he would look after his little brother and that promise was something he would never go back on, no matter how much Sherlock might hate him for it.

“Very well. I will double my efforts to protect you both,” Mycroft sighs and then shifts somewhat uneasily. “Sherlock…you mustn’t blame yourself for anything that might happen. Moriarty has made his decisions. You cannot change them.”

Sherlock cocks a brow and frowns in thought. Mycroft’s demeanor is unusual to say the least. It is almost as if he knows something he cannot say, or rather, will not say. Sherlock is just opening his mouth to demand Mycroft reveal what he is hiding when John walks back in carrying his overnight bag.

“Did I miss anything?”

The detective’s mouth shuts with a quiet click and he turns his gaze to his flatmate. He clears the annoyance from his face and shakes his head.

“No. Nothing at all.”

John grins and glances from Sherlock to Mycroft. His eyes shifts back and forth from one man to the other as his smile fades a bit. Mycroft rises and speaks before John can ask any questions.

“Nothing my brother won’t make you aware of, should he deem it necessary. I’m sure I’ll see you both again before Sherlock’s released. Until then,” he bows slightly and walks to the door, stopping next to John long enough to give him a sideways glance. John nods nearly imperceptibly. Sherlock raises an eyebrow. Mycroft leaves, closing the door behind.

John claps his hands together and rubs them lightly, joining Sherlock at the bed. He pulls up the room’s only chair and sits next to his friend.

“So…”

“What’s going on?” Sherlock interrupts.

“Going on?”

“Don’t pretend I didn’t see that.”

“See what?” Sherlock tilts his head and gives John a look that says ‘Don’t be an idiot. You know I know.’ John leans back against the chair and sighs. “You know Mycroft. He’s not happy unless he’s pissing someone off.”

“And you are the one he’s pissing off this time."

"This time."

"He wants you to suggest we part ways?”

“Of course. I’m sure he’s said the same to you.” John licks his lips. “S'not going to happen and he knows it.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Sherlock smiles and reaches for John’s hand. John raises it and lets him hold it for a moment. Eventually, Sherlock leans back against his pillows and sighs in frustration. “I need to get out of here. It’s imperative that we put a stop to Moriarty’s activities.”

“Just a day or two more, Sherlock. It’ll keep.” The detective opens his mouth to protest, but John covers it with two fingers. “Shhh…. It will keep, Sherlock. And you won’t have to worry about me because I intend to stay right here until you’re released. I have plenty of ideas for entertaining ourselves.”

“Do you? I’m intrigued,” Sherlock purrs with a mischievous smile.

“I thought you might be,” John teases, waggling his blonde eyebrows as he stands and leans over him. “I thought Cluedo and then…”

A grinning Sherlock drags him down for a kiss. One that is soft and sweet. He flicks his tongue across John’s lips and nibbles his bottom lip before smiling against it.

“I have far more interesting ideas.”

“So I see.” John kisses him back and then smiles fondly. Sherlock brushes a hand through John’s hair. John giggles and Sherlock is inclined to join him until his mind, his clever mind pulls Moriarty’s words from its depths and reminds him of the danger John is in. He shifts in the bed and lets his hands slide down to rest at John’s waist.

“John,” he begins hesitantly, “promise me you’ll be careful. That you won’t take any chances.”

“If you promise me the same.”

Sherlock smiles and nods. John returns it and then pulls his detective into a firm embrace. When they separate, John reveals a bag of Sherlock’s favorite crisps, smuggled in his overnight bag. After another kiss, they settle into their temporary living quarters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. All the murder attempts are pretty soap opera-ish, but it's all going somewhere, I promise. And, hey... KISSING, FEELS!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John discovers what Sherlock's favorite movie is and is quite surprised.  
> Sherlock invites John to spend the night in his room and then starts having nightmares.  
> Sherlock becomes more and more concerned about Moriarty's plans for John, and begins to fear his feelings for John are damping his deductive skills.

A few weeks after his hospital release, Sherlock has finally recovered to John’s satisfaction and has stopped “hounding” Sherlock to be sensible. The investigation into Moriarty’s activities is in full swing and taking much of the detective’s time. John struggles from day to day to get the skinny bastard to eat and sleep. To combat the lack of interest in taking care of himself, John implemented taking a short break every two days under penalty of no snuggling on the sofa. Sherlock strongly protested these conditions, but gave in eventually.

John is in the kitchen, lingering around until his tea is done. He glances toward the sitting room and is reminded that today is a break day. Craning his neck to listen, he catches a word here and there in different voices. Sherlock must be watching telly. Removing the bag from his mug, he sets off, glancing at Sherlock as he walks through. He stops as soon as he is out of the room and blinks in confusion. He slowly turns his head back toward the doorway and stops again, looking back into the room. Sherlock has either not noticed or is ignoring him. Truly unable to help himself, John walks back in and stands behind the sofa, sipping his tea. Sherlock is slouched down in the chair and only his curls are visible from the back. John watches the screen for a moment. He sips from his mug again.

 “Are those gnomes?”

 “Trolls,” Sherlock wrinkles his nose.

 “Trolls. Right,” John nods. “And they’re friends of that blonde fellow, yeah?”

 “They are the only family he’s ever known,” Sherlock replies, rolling his eyes and then adding. “Aside from the reindeer.”

 “What is this?”

 “It’s a film.”

 “It’s a cartoon.”

 “It’s a statement on the human condition.”

 “Right,” John takes a step closer to the sofa. “And just how are adoptive trolls a statement of the human condition?”

 “Not them! The sisters! The human sisters. The elder shut out the younger at a very young age. It’s the story of their reconciliation.”

 John leans forward over the back of the sofa and looks at his flatmate with a sideways smile. Sherlock glances at him with narrowed eyes.

 “I can see why you like it.” Suddenly music starts playing and John jumps back, standing straight. “And, oh my god, they’re singing.”

 Sherlock grabs the remote and jabs at the pause button. He turns a thoroughly annoyed glare at his little doctor and speaks crisply.

 “If you insist upon besmirching my choice of film, I’ll thank you to leave.“

 “This from the man who criticizes my Bond movies,” John retorts with a hand on his hip.

 “Oh, please. There is no redeemable value in those travesties. Their only credit is Dame Judi Dench, and even she was killed off.”

 “I enjoy the thrill and suspense.”

 “Oh, God.”

 "They’re certainly more interesting than this!”

 “I didn’t ask you to stay!” Sherlock snaps vehemently.

 “Right, right. Sorry.” John turns to go and takes a few steps, but stops. Sherlock’s head is tilted to one side. John can almost see the impatient expression on his face through the back of his head as he waits for John to speak. John takes a couple of hesitant steps toward the sofa.

 “Can I stay if I promise not to say anything?”

 A moment later, John is sitting next to Sherlock on the sofa watching singing trolls and John smiles in spite of himself. He can’t believe he’s watching this. He can’t believe Sherlock, of all people, is watching this. The story begins to make more sense as the film continues and John’s grins keep getting wider and wider whenever he spares a glance at Sherlock. It’s not long before John just has to say something and totally disregards his promise.

 “The blonde fellow is gone on her,” he looks at his detective. Sherlock remains silent, so John leans in close and continues in a sly tone. “Just like you are on me.“

 He hrumphs and rolls his eyes. John continues to smile and reaches for Sherlock’s hand. Drawing it to his mouth, he brushes his lips over the detective’s knuckles and then kisses the back of his hand. John’s smile widens at the visible shiver that passes through Sherlock’s body. He closes his mouth around the index finger and sucks lightly. Sherlock slowly turns his head to meet John’s eyes and pulls the finger from his mouth with a pop. His face is dead serious, but John can tell he’s trying not to smile.

 “John, you’re distracting me.”

 “Oh, I do apologize,” John smiles and kisses the tip of his nose.

 “As my mate…”

 “Your mate?”

 “And my doctor,” Sherlock ignores the interruption, “you are obligated to help me relax, by your own admission.”

 John opens his mouth to protest, but can’t refute Sherlock’s point without contradicting himself and Sherlock’s devilish smile says he knows it. Some part of him wants to argue just because the man looks so smug. Another part is very intrigued by the mate thing and wants to find out more about what that means to Sherlock. Instead of pursuing either topic, he narrows his eyes and simply maintains his gaze as if in a standoff or staring contest.

 “Fine,” he says finally. “How can I help?”

 “I want to finish the film,” Sherlock replied decisively and then with a wicked smile, the tip of his tongue sliding along his lips. “I want to rub your feet.”

 “That’s going to help you relax?” John laughs. His flatmate does not respond, but gives him a look that says ‘I wouldn’t ask if it won’t help.’ John shakes his head and toes off his shoes. “Okay, okay. Don’t question the genius.”

 Sherlock leans down to lift John’s feet into his lap and removes his socks, dropping each one on the floor in turn. Sherlock gently strokes and caresses John’s feet, one after the other and back again. As the film eventually comes to an end and the credits begin, Sherlock drops his eyes to John’s surprisingly smooth feet.

 “Are you familiar with reflexology?” he asks in a deep voice that warms the base of John’s spine.

 “Of course. Can’t say I give it much credence.”

 “No? You don’t believe points on one’s feet or hands correspond to different organs?”

 “Not even a little,” John laughs quietly and watches his flatmate closely as he moves his hands over John’s feet carefully.

 “I have researched it quite extensively and found that there is a very sensitive erogenous zone on the feet of most men.” Sherlock slides his eyes to look at John, an impish smile on his face. For his part, John bursts out laughing. He throws his back against the arm of the sofa and categorically ignores Sherlock’s petulant expression.

 “An erogenous zone, my…JESUS CHRIST!” John gasps, his hands suddenly clutching at the sofa. Sherlock skillfully leans across John’s body and seals their mouths together. His tongue immediately winds around his flatmate’s, tastes and breaths mingling. Both men feel like they have been kept out of heaven until this very moment and sigh into one another.

 When Sherlock pulls away, he’s quickly off the sofa and walking toward the door. John looks after him in frustration, uncertain how to proceed. Sherlock glides to a stop in the doorway and turns back with a sincere and almost shy look on his face.

 “John, would you do me the great honor of joining me in my bedroom for the evening?”

 “God, yes.”

 ***

 Roughly five minutes later, a nervous John Watson stands outside the door to Sherlock’s bedroom with a hand raised to knock. His body is still, unable to gather his courage. It isn’t as though he hasn’t had any experience with men. Everyone experiments at some point in life, after all. But he knows, without a doubt, that he has never before felt what he feels for Sherlock.

Licking his lips, John finally knocks lightly on the door and hears his flatmate’s voice grant him entrance. He walks in to see Sherlock dressed in silk pajamas and sitting on his bed. The royal blue silk looks stunning against his dark hair and brings out the blue flecks in his eyes. A stray curl hangs down onto his forehead. John suddenly feels embarrassed in his own plaid pj bottoms and white tee. He balls his hands into fists and swallows hard, captivated by the vision before him.

 “God, you’re gorgeous.”

 Sherlock shifts on the bed to sit on his knees and extends a hand to John. He takes it hesitantly and climbs onto the bed. The two men face each other on their knees.

 “You sleep in silk pajamas?” John asks raising a brow.

 “No,” Sherlock replies quietly. He rests his hands on John’s waist and pulls him up so their bodies are touching from chest to knee, their hips more or less together. John cradles his face in one hand while placing the other on his shoulder. Their lips meet hesitantly, softly. Both exhale slowly through open mouths, close enough to feel the warmth of the other’s breath.

 Without opening his eyes, John leans in and draws Sherlock near. They kiss. This time with a hunger, a need. Sherlock’s hands slide around to the small of John’s back, holding their bodies even closer. John tilts his head up further and sticks out his chin to get a different angle on the tall man in his arms. He pokes the tip of his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth and then retracts it, pulling his chin back as well.

 Both men open their eyes half way to look at one another, searching, seeking permission. John slides his hand along Sherlock’s jawline, brushing a thumb across his lips. Sherlock nips at it, then tilts his head and swoops in. John’s mind goes blank but for the taste of Sherlock. His scent, the warmth of his lips.

 Meanwhile, Sherlock finds himself completely mystified by his flatmate. In defiance of all logic and belief, the mind of the Great Sherlock Holmes is SILENT. His only thoughts are of John. He wants to know everything. Every part of John’s body - touching, tasting, smelling, listening. Will John cry out at orgasm? Will he say Sherlock’s name? Will he curse? Likely, given his propensity to swear. Sherlock wants data and yet, cannot be troubled with it. He’s so swept up that all he wants is John. Not to think or reason or analyze. Just John.

He nudges forward, urging John down onto his back, and resting his own body atop. He licks inside John’s mouth with an unmatched heat and intensity. When he finally pulls away to gasp for a breath, he and John share an intimate gaze.

 “Bloody hell.” John’s eyes are black with desire and wide with surprise. Sherlock can’t help but chuckle. He takes another breath before answering, suddenly wanting to slow the pace and make this night last forever.

 “John, I assume your experience with men is somewhat…limited.”

 “What? Why?” John’s eyes fill with concern and his pupils begin to shrink, even as Sherlock smiles and strokes his hair. “Have I done something wrong?”

 “No. You’re perfect.” Sherlock tips forward and kisses John passionately, but he keeps his mouth closed. When he pulls away, he brings his hands up to cup John’s face and meets his eyes. “I do not intend to rush you.”

 He kisses him again and then along his jawline to his ear. After a few good nibbles, he ducks his head down under John’s chin and snuggles up to his chest.

 “We have all the time in the world,” he says fondly.

 “How can you say that? Moriarty has tried to kill you three times in the last few months and hasn’t succeeded because he hasn’t wanted to. He’s come so damn close, Sherlock, and he isn’t going to stop until he’s finished what he started.”

 Sherlock pushes himself up to look down at John. Sherlock’s eyes are full of both concern and anger. John shakes his head and looks away for a split second, ready to continue, but his flatmate interrupts him.

 “He will not succeed.”

 “Sherlock,” John sighs, “when you woke in hospital the first thing you said was that Moriarty purposefully failed to kill you. That he’s trying to make a point.”

 “And your point is?”

 “Suppose he gets bored with stringing us along. Suppose he chooses not to fail.”

 Sherlock sighs, places his hands on John’s shoulders, and rolls them onto their sides. He looks into his flatmate’s deep blue eyes and tries to rid his own of the anger he feels. He is not angry with John and does not want him to mistakenly believe it so. He is, however, furious with the situation. He cannot allow Moriarty to disrupt their lives any further, but he cannot lie to John about the man’s motives. He must tell him what he has deduced, even if it may only cause John more concern.

 “John, the point isn’t to kill me. It’s to burn me.”

 “Burn you?”

 “Burn the heart out of me. That’s what he said at the pool.”

 “I remember,” John pauses, “but what does that mean? He wants to hurt you?”

 “Yes,” Sherlock’s eyes go out of focus, gazing passed him in distraction, in thought. A glint of realization in them. “And what better way to hurt me?”

 “What? Sherlock,” John shifts in his arms to slide back into view. “Sherlock, you know something. What is it?”

 The detective quickly snaps from his thoughts, looks at John for a moment, and then draws him in for a comforting kiss.

 “He won’t succeed, John. I give you my word.”

 John sighs and looks into Sherlock’s eyes. He pulls him close into a tight embrace and wonders what the future will bring.

 ***

 Later that night, Sherlock wakes to find John missing. He rubs his eyes and runs a hand through his curls, looking around the room.

 “John?” he yawns, getting out of bed. “John?”

He steps forward only to stop dead when he feels a knife blade at his back. He rolls his eyes and turns his head slowly to see Moriarty standing behind him with a smile on his face.

 “It’s me again,” he smiles widely and says in his sing-songy voice. “Hi.”

 “Must you insist upon letting yourself into my flat?” Sherlock growls.

 “It’s the only way I can see you,” he smirks. “You never return my calls.”

 “You aren’t worth my time.”

 “Oh, Sherlock, that hurts. It really does.” He presses the knife closer and leers. “Does John ever whisper that in the dark? Because I’m gonna make him say it.”

 Sherlock spins around and tackles Moriarty, grabbing his wrist to keep him from slashing or thrusting with the knife. The smaller man struggles to get the blade close enough to stab Sherlock’s body and escape his grasp.

 “I will put a bullet in your brain before you touch John!” Sherlock snarls.

 “Not if I kill you first,” he cackles loudly in the detective’s face. “I should’ve done it already. You’re on borrowed time, Sherrrrrlock.”

“What’s stopping you?” Sherlock thrusts his face close to Moriarty’s and scowls, staring him down. Moriarty grins back and twists their legs together. Bending both of his own, he forces one of Sherlock’s knees to hyperextend. The detective grunts in pain and Moriarty seizes the opportunity to shove him off. He lunges to attack, but Sherlock recovers quickly and holds him at bay. The two men wrestle around violently, each landing solid shots to the other’s face until Moriarty pushes away just enough to slash Sherlock’s wrist. He lets out a pained shout.

 Moriarty quickly asserts himself over the wounded detective and pins him down. In spite of his injury, Sherlock grasps Moriarty’s wrist to regain at least some control over the knife, but Moriarty doesn’t try to attack. He just smiles and licks his lips.

 “What’s stopping me?”

 They stare at one another in cold, dark hate. A trail of blood slowly trickles downward from just above Sherlock’s eye. Moriarty leans down and licks it away from his ear, and then whispers.

 “Because when I take him…I want you to watch.”

 In a sudden fit of rage, Sherlock growls and veritably throws the smaller man off the bed. His mind clouded by anger, he jumps up and launches himself onto Moriarty’s body. The upturned knife pierces his chest and he falls heavily onto the other man, the blade pressing further into his body. Moriarty pushes the detective onto his back and grins when a strangled cry slips from his throat. He stares right into Sherlock’s eyes and leans in close, so close that Sherlock can feel his breath.

“Looks like you won’t be attending the show after all. What a shame,” clicking his tongue. “I’ll still make sure John puts on the performance of his life. Just for you.”

 Sherlock grimaces and uses the last of his strength to punch him square in the jaw with his left hand. Stunned, Moriarty falls to the floor, but manages to pull himself up again to look Sherlock in the eye one last time. He can see the detective is fading fast.

 “So long, Sherlock. I’ll give your love to John.”

 “No…” he struggles to speak, to hold his eyes open. “John…” Sherlock’s eyes close and silence surrounds him.

 To his surprise, his eyes spring open again to the blurred image of a worried face framed with mussed blonde hair. He blinks rapidly to clear his vision and the unknown face quickly becomes John’s.

 “Sherlock. Sherlock, wake up.” John pushes at his shoulders insistently, blocking Sherlock’s fist efficiently when he takes a swing at him. “Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?!”

 He gapes at John, his mind suddenly back in focus. His eyes dart around the room and at John’s face. Seeing no trace of Moriarty, Sherlock sighs and lets his body fall limp onto the bed.

 “It was a dream,” he mumbles. “Just a dream.”

 “And a bloody awful one from the sound of it.”

 Sherlock glances at John and then averts his gaze to the ceiling, disgusted with himself for behaving so irrationally. He sneers and waves it off dismissively.

 “It’s fine.”

 “Do you want to talk…”

 “NO.”

 John purses his lips and widens his eyes in exasperation, moving his body away from his flatmate’s. This is definitely NOT how he wanted their first night sharing a bed to go.

 “Right, right. No need to tell me anything. I only love you, that’s all.” John sits up and leans into a pillow up against the headboard. “It was Moriarty.”

 Sherlock pushes himself up quickly and gives John his patented “What the fuck” look.

 “Pretty obvious,” John crosses his arms over his chest. “You said his name just now.”

 “I said…” Sherlock stares indignantly. “I do not talk in my sleep!”

 “Maybe, maybe not, under normal circumstances, but you did just now. So, are you going to tell me? Are we going to talk about this or are you going to keep me in the dark? AGAIN.”

 Sherlock sits up and studies John carefully. The words from his dreams echo in his ears and are soon joined by Moriarty’s actual words. His threats toward John still cut cold in his heart. He doesn’t want to say a word, but how can he not? How can he keep this from John with so much at stake? He swallows hard, licking his lips.

 “I… He...he threatened me and then he killed me.” Sherlock closes his eyes in anger. Why can’t he bring himself to tell John what is really bothering him? Where is the courage and confidence that defines him? Is this what being in a relationship does to people, to him?

 “You’re frightened,” John catches Sherlock’s attention with that and his eyes snap open.

 “I am not frightened!” the detective replies furiously. He starts to move away and get out of the bed, but stops at a light touch to his arm.

 “Sherlock, please don’t go.”

 Sherlock looks at him again and sees the concern in his eyes. His anger melts away with a sigh. He puts his hands on John’s shoulders and looks at him with soft eyes. When he speaks his voice is gentle. He speaks slowly and emphatically.

 “I am NOT frightened or even concerned. Moriarty WILL NOT succeed. I won’t let him.”

 John searches his eyes. Sherlock can tell he is trying to chase away the worry from his own dark blue gaze. It might have worked if anyone else was looking into his eyes, but not Sherlock.:

 “Okay, okay,” John almost whispers. He clears his throat and looks at Sherlock with more of his usual certainty. “So, how do we find him? Maybe Greg…”

 “If Lestrade had anything useful, he’d have told us. No, I need to contact my network. See what they’ve found.” He moves toward the edge of the bed and reaches for his dressing gown. John watches him with a look of shock.

 “What? Now?”

 “Of course.”

 “It’s 3 o'clock in the morning!” John declares incredulously. Sherlock looks back at him and then shakes it off as irrelevant. John lunges forward to grab his arm and pulls him back. They are face to face now, their bodies close. John puts his hands on Sherlock’s hips and whispers.

 “Don’t go.”

 “John…” Sherlock begins, but Moriarty’s face with that leering smile at the mention of John’s name flashes into his mind and suddenly he’d rather be nowhere else but at John’s side. “I’ll stay right here. Right here with you.”

 He pulls John close into a desperate kiss and then wraps his arms around his shoulders tightly.

 “Sherlock, are you all right?”

 Sherlock nods against John’s shoulder and tries to avoid looking him in the eye as he schools his expression, making sure his eyes reveal nothing when they meet John’s. He desperately wants to let out a long sigh and tell the truth, but how can he? How can he tell the beautiful man before him what Moriarty wants to do to him? Hurt him…fuck him.

 “Yes. I’m fine,” Sherlock replies, looking John in the eye and wishing he didn’t have to lie.

 They lie down in one another’s arms. Sherlock, lost in thought, and John, determined to find out what’s wrong. He knows Sherlock is lying. Sherlock is troubled and it’s about Moriarty. Something he doesn’t want John to know. A threat, most likely, but it isn’t his own safety that Sherlock’s worried about and John is pretty sure he knows who it really is.

 ***

 Just after midnight, Sherlock wakes with a start from another nightmare. He has awoke this way every night since returning to 221B two months ago. He and John have shared his bed every night since that first one, which has made things difficult. Sherlock has gone out of his way to keep his nightmares from John and it has worked for the most part, but the detective is certain it will not last much longer. John isn't stupid and he'll soon realize that Sherlock's night terrors happen more often than he believes. Sherlock has to come up with something to tell John without lying, or telling the truth. God, what has happened to him?! Has falling in love so deeply and so completely laid waste to all of his mental abilities in a mere matter of weeks? And, if so, what can he do to combat it? Sherlock knows full well that trying to go backwards and just be friends again will not change his feelings for John. Or John’s feelings for him. They will still be drawn to one another. Laying flat on his back, Sherlock sighs up at the ceiling. Caring is not an advantage.

Sherlock sighs again heavily and turns his head to see John sleeping soundly next to him. They were discussing a case and then Moriarty, and must have fallen asleep. He knows it’s foolish, but after the nightmare he just wants to touch John, touch him and make sure he is real and safe. Sherlock reaches for his flatmate and gently touches his hand. It feels warmth and alive. Sherlock slides his fingers to John’s wrist to feel for his pulse. Strong and steady.

 Letting his lips curl into an affectionate smile, he relaxes into the bed and gazes at his flatmate. He silently catalogs John’s little movements - his eyes flitting back and forth beneath his eyelids, the occasional twitching of his lips. Sherlock spends extra time studying those lips and very lightly touches his fingers to them, but pulls his hand back quickly when John suddenly jerks his head away. Sherlock holds his breath as John grows still again.

 Knowing he isn’t going to fall asleep again anytime soon, Sherlock gently kisses John’s forehead and quietly gets out of bed. He pads out of the room and down the hall, stopping only when he reaches his desk. Sitting down, he begins going over various documents, on paper and on his laptop, in an effort to find Moriarty’s safe houses and hired hands. He has evidence of several crimes, both already committed and still to come, that he must discuss with Lestrade in the morning.

 After two hours of work, Sherlock is so engrossed that he doesn’t even hear John approach. He looks up when a shadow other than his own appears on his desk to see John standing before him, hair mussed and bleary-eyed. He is adorable.

 “How long have you been up?” John asks in a groggy voice.

 “A couple of hours.”

 “Sorry to have kicked you out of bed.”

 “I couldn’t sleep anyway. And besides…” he rises and steps around the desk, wrapping his long arms around John’s body, hands resting on his hips. “I like you in my bed.”

 John smiles almost shyly and lets out a little laugh. He reaches up and encircles Sherlock’s neck.

 “Still… It’s your bed, Sherlock. You shouldn’t have to give it up for me.” John watches with soft eyes as Sherlock shrugs dismissively. He continues hesitantly, not quite meeting the detective’s eyes. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about cases in your room.”

 “Why not?”

 “Well, it’s just…” John shifts somewhat nervously. “You should be able to relax in your own bedroom and sleep, but you couldn’t. You left. And as much as you deny it, you do need to sleep, Sherlock.”

 “That is hardly due to discussing cases with you. Or even you being in my bed. My brain doesn’t just turn off. I leave my room in favor of working quite often. You know that.”

 “I know, but it’s not particularly healthy and... I worry about you.” Now John continues very carefully. “Especially with these nightmares.”

 Sherlock’s mind snaps to attention at that, but his expression shows nothing. John knows! He has noticed! Does he know it happens every night or believe it's once of twice a week? In any case, the detective decides to ignore the comment for now in favor of thinking it through later.

 “Yes, well, short of drugging me every evening, which I think you’ll agree is also unhealthy…” his voice trails away as a tucked-away tidbit emerges from his mind palace. The first time he’d invited John into his room and they’d kissed, kissed intensely…he hadn’t thought of a thing. Not a damn thing. Aside from John, of course, and how much he’d like to shag him into the mattress and taste every inch of his body. Sherlock quickly shakes his head to dispel that line of thought before John can feel a certain hardness against his thigh. He frowns when his cock twitches beneath his pants and pajamas, and hopes John didn't notice.

 “Are you okay?” John asks with raised eyebrows.

 “What? Yes. Yes, of course.”

 “Because you look a little…”

 Sherlock misses the rest, thinking back on that night. It had been bliss. He’d still had a nightmare and woke. It was his first nightmare, in fact, but he had held John close after and then slept soundly, in spite of his concerns. Every night since, he and John had simply climbed into bed, bid one another good night, and gone to sleep. Yes, they had snuggled close and pecked one another on the lips a few times, but nothing terribly serious. Sherlock told him he would not rush, not push him into anything, and Sherlock aimed to keep his promise. Each night, Sherlock had a nightmare and got up to work after, leaving John to his slumber.

 With all of these thoughts pushing their way through his mind, Sherlock fixes his previously distant gaze on John. Could it be? Could the evidence before his own eyes be true? Is the sweet little cinnamon roll in his arms actually the only person or thing Sherlock has ever found that brings real peace to his overactive mind? And what does that mean exactly? Is that a good thing or will it eventually dull his senses?

 “Sherlock, are you listening?” John sounds annoyed. Sherlock blinks twice in mild surprise.

“Yes.”

”Oh, yeah?” John leans away from the taller man and cocks a brow. “What did I say?”

 “I’m sorry, what?”

 “Typical,” John continues, frowning and feeling grumpy. “You haven’t heard a thing I’ve said. And you’re looking at me like…”

 “Like what?” Sherlock raises an eyebrow curiously. John furrows his brow, crinkling his forehead and looking adorable.

 “Like you want to give me a right flipping seeing-to,” John comments, suddenly sporting a playful grin. An outright wicked smile spreads across Sherlock’s face. John is momentarily surprised and pleased, but his expression quickly reverts to concern. “You need to take care of yourself no matter how intense things get with Moriarty.”

 Sherlock’s face sours immediately, the mood completely shattered. He sneers and untangles himself from their embrace, pushing passed John.

 “Don’t be absurd,” he remarks dismissively. John turns with him and grabs his arm.

 “Promise me.”

 “Oh, John, really.”

 “Sherlock, promise me.” John is in full Captain Watson mode now. “No unusually stupid risks or ducking out on me to go it alone. No drugs. I’ll know. You know I’ll know.”

 It’s a low blow and John knows it. Sherlock hasn’t used in over a year. He bristles and glares down at John.

 “FINE,” he replies through clenched teeth, wrenching his arm away and walking to his room. He mumbles as he goes. “You’re as bad as Mycroft.”

 “I’m looking out for you, you fucking prick,” John calls to his back angrily. “You won’t.”

 Sherlock stops and turns to look back at John with silver eyes cold as ice. His muscles work furious beneath his jaw and he lifts his chin sharply.

 “It would be wise for us to sleep in our own rooms for a time.”

“Sherlock…” John’s face goes from anger to dismay in seconds. “Sherlock, wait.”

“Goodnight, John.” The detective stalks into his bedroom and locks the door. John’s shoulders sag in defeat. He takes two steps back and leans on the wall, staring at the closed door. He bites his lip and then blows out a long, frustrated sigh.

“Shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. I really want to get the chapters out faster, but I'm editing. I need to sit down and have a mad editing night!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft makes an absurd suggestion.  
> Sally flirts with John.  
> A flat explodes.  
> The detective lies to the doctor.  
> John yells at Mycroft.  
> Sherlock and John have a heart-to-heart.

Five days have passed since the row and there has been little to no conversation, or anything else, between the detective and his blogger. Each of them has tried to break the ice many times, but hasn’t been able to follow through. Sherlock has not slept well, if at all. John has found him at his desk or playing his violin to the window every morning. John knows the detective cannot quiet his mind and that being with John helps him do just that. He almost feels as though it is only a matter of time before the brilliant man drives himself mad. Then again, maybe not. He managed for his whole life before John came along. But things are different now, aren’t they? They certainly are for John.

Alone in his upstairs bedroom the night before as he listened to slow, sad violin music drift up from below, John had resolved to speak with Sherlock first thing in the morning. That plan came to a crashing halt when Sherlock greeted him with new information on the location of a flat Moriarty had recently occupied. They grabbed their coats and left immediately.

Under the slight delay of paying for the cab ride, John walks into the flat in question and finds the detective at a table with his back to the door.

“He was just here. We must have missed him by minutes,” he says sharply.

“How can you be sure?”

Sherlock turns to face John, an apple in his hand. Holding it out to John, he sees that the typical IOU message was left in it.

“The flesh is nearly white. It’s only just been exposed to air in the last five or ten minutes.” He steps close to John so he can see it clearly. John takes it from him, touching his hand lightly and a fraction longer than he needs to. Sherlock’s hand feels cold as soon as John takes the apple. Its absence makes him want to reach out and pull it back. The last five days have been miserable. Sleepless, joyless, cold. His mind has been on a rampage with no hope of peace.

Resisting the urge to draw John close and wrap his arms around that warm, little body, Sherlock turns away and stalks further into the room. File folders, papers, and plans are scattered everywhere. The only thing missing is a laptop. Undoubtedly, the one item Moriarty made sure to grab. He grumbles angrily as John steps closer.

“Didn’t you say something about Mycroft nosing in? Maybe he got here first and went after the bastard,” John suggests.

“Please,” Sherlock turns to look at him with smirk. “Mycroft run after anyone? Unlikely.”

“You don’t think Moriarty took him…”

“Kidnap Mycroft?” he snorts. “Perish the thought.”

“I’m serious, Sherlock. I wouldn’t put it passed him.”

Sherlock turns fully and faces John, taking in the sight. John’s hands are clenched at his sides and he is looking up at Sherlock with angry eyes. It is more the result of their disagreement than the case. Sherlock is struck by the urge to apologize for losing his temper and dismissing John, but they are on a case now. He will not let their relationship interfere any more than it already has. 

“If he has, he deserves what he gets. Mycroft does not like ‘field work’,” Sherlock looks away and continues off-handedly. “I’m more concerned about…”

He lets his voice trail off and when he turns back to John again, the smaller man is very close, right up in his business close. Sherlock’s stance falters, but he holds his ground. John is staring up at him intensely. He squares his shoulders and looks every bit the military captain he was before being wounded.

“What, Sherlock?” he demands. “What’s bothering you?”

“It’s not important. Finding Moriarty is…” he begins dismissively, but stops when John grabs his shoulders and gives him the slightest shake. He pulls the man forward, forcing him to bend down a bit closer so John can nearly look him in the eye.

“I haven’t gotten more than two words from you since our row, but I don’t believe for a minute that’s what’s bothering you.”

“Of course it is. I’m angry.”

“Bollocks,” John snaps. “Are you going to tell me or are we going to have a problem?

Sherlock merely stares down at him, poker face firmly in place while Moriarty’s threats echo through his mind. To his surprise, John’s next words are tight but calm rather than shouts. Not to mention spot on.

“He threatened me, didn’t he?” John watches as his detective’s schooled expression crumbles in surprise and then slides into a small smile. John gives him a smug look. “I’m not just a pretty face, you know.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, but hears those exact words in Moriarty’s voice before he can utter a word. His playful expression is quickly replaced with fear and then panic. He grabs at John before he can stop himself, any place he can find purchase and yanks John closer.

“Whoa. Hey,” John holds onto him tightly and meets his eyes, searching, already knowing the answers to all of his unspoken questions. “Okay. It’s okay.”

“No,” Sherlock shakes his head, trying to compose himself. He must get John to see how NOT okay it is without looking like a complete idiot. It only takes a moment to recover once he wrangles in his emotions. He looks at John, ready to continue where they left off, but stops. Deep blue eyes, so full of concern and love, look back at him. Eyes that were once angry, but are now a steady and determined and seeking the truth. Sherlock almost winces. Still unable say the words aloud to John himself, he settles for the next best thing. “Yes, he threatened you. He intends to harm you.”

“And you with me,” John leans in and kisses his lips gently When he pulls back, however, he wears a more irritated expression again. “I’ll be fine, Sherlock. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“I know, John,” Sherlock sighs with a desperate edge to his voice, “but he doesn’t want to kill you! He wants to…”

He isn’t even sure what he was going to say and will never know because Greg Lestrade and his forces suddenly burst into the flat. John darts away from Sherlock and faces the others in full-on captain mode. Sherlock’s lips turn down in disappointment.

“Looks like a gold mine,” Greg declares, gesturing to his personnel, “Let’s get started. We have a lot of work to do.”

He leads them through the room and into the rest of the flat. Sherlock sneers, watching some technicians open cases and remove equipment. John glances at him as he stalks by mumbling about idiots and destroying the evidence. Sally Donovan passes close on John’s other side and smiles when he looks at her.

“Thanks for calling us in, Doctor,” she nods. John nods back, looking a little confused. Greg calls loudly from just inside the next room and Sally immediately diverts her course.

“John, Sherlock.” Greg appears in the doorway and motions to them. John reaches the door just before Sherlock. Walking side by side, they follow Greg to the wall at the far side of the room and stop. Scrawled across it in what looks like blood are the words ‘I will burn your heart, Sherlock”.

“Oh, hey, look. He left you a note. Nice how he remembers you, isn’t it?” John snarks. Greg looks at him with a serious expression while Sally sizes up the wall. A smile spreads across Sherlock’s face.

“We’re getting closer to the end game. We’ve been close to catching him before, but this time we were right on his doorstep. His mind is clouding with anger.” He looks at John and back at the wall. “It’s personal now and that will be his undoing.”

“Well spotted, brother mine.”

Sherlock stiffens at the sound of Mycroft’s voice. The lifelong mantras he spent so much time teaching Sherlock instantly spring to mind. ‘Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side.’ Hadn’t he, himself, recited that very phrase to Irene Adler? ‘Caring is not an advantage. All hearts are broken.’ How much pain could he have saved John by pushing him away instead of giving into his own feelings and weaknesses?

“A little late, aren’t you, Mycroft?” Sherlock and John both turn to face the tall man. “Even London’s finest beat you here.”

“On the contrary, my men and I arrived prior to even you and the good doctor. I sent several after Moriarty. Unfortunately, I’ve just been informed that he evaded them.”

“Of course he did. When are you going to learn that some things are better done yourself?”

“When are you going to learn…anything?” Mycroft says with a wry smile. John stifles a chuckle and regrets it immediately when Sherlock turns to glare at him. Greg rolls his eyes and goes back to ordering around his officers. Sally nods at John again and walks back into the other room.

“Doctor, would you allow me a word with Sherlock?” Mycroft asks politely, gazing at his brother. John slowly turns his head and then scowls. Typical.

“Oh, right. Of course. Don’t mind me. I’ll just look around with the bobbies, shall I?” John strides to the other side of the room and starts poking around at a desk while the elder speaks quietly to the younger. John turns and glowers for a few seconds and then goes back to rummaging through the desk drawers. “Fucking prick.”

“Why do you do that?” Sherlock demands. “John is far more clever than you give him credit.”

“Sherlock, you and Dr. Watson are in grave danger.”

“Really, Mycroft? I had no idea,” he replies sarcastically. The older man inhales deeply, trying to keep his patience. He gives Sherlock a tight smile and lowers his voice even further.

“I would like you to consider going into hiding until I am able to detain Moriarty.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock says loudly. 

“You MUST! And convince John to do the same!”

John glances in their direction again and sees that  Mycroft is now very close to Sherlock, staring at him with searing eyes. John can see his mouth moving, but can’t hear the words. He purses his lips and returns his attention to the desk and the surrounding area. He picks up some documents and skims them quickly. He finds a few things Greg should know and even discovers some items Sherlock may find interesting. Replacing them on the desk, he leans down and opens the desk’s bottom drawer.

“I couldn’t convince John if I tried!” Sherlock says through clenched teeth. “He’s a soldier. He doesn’t hide from danger. If he did, he certainly wouldn’t have met me.”

He shoves passed Mycroft, wanting nothing more than to end the conversation, but Mycroft  grabs his arm and holds him back. Sherlock looks at him with wide, furious eyes and wrenches his arm away as his brother hisses.

“You must, Sherlock. I fear for your safety. BOTH of you. You have no idea what Moriarty is capable of.”

“Oh, I have a pretty good idea,” he snaps. “Now get out of my way and let me do my job.”

Having finished with the desk, John makes his way around its left side. He opens a cabinet and does a cursory look-through before closing the doors again and scanning beyond it. He steps forward to have a closer look at a somewhat irregular-looking part of the wall. After some knocking and tinkering, he opens a hidden door and finds himself face to face with a small bomb. Its digital clock counting down the seconds, he turns and flies at the Holmes brothers.

“GET DOWN!”

He tackles them both to the ground as the room explodes around them. Shrapnel flies around them and large pieces of the ceiling crumble to the floor. Several strike John’s body as he uses it to shelter Sherlock and Mycroft. When the dust settles, the room is a disaster. Greg and Sally appear in the doorways on either side of the room, the three men lying on the floor in between. Greg jumps into action and starts pushing through the rubble to reach them.

“Jesus Christ! What the hell was that?!” he cries. 

“I believe it’s called a bomb, Inspector,” Mycroft responds tartly, pushing himself up. He and Sherlock cough a bit as they sit up together, but neither is harmed. John, on the other hand, lies limp across their legs. Sherlock scrambles out from beneath him quickly and gets to his knees, leaning over the smaller man.

“John! John!”

The detective hovers his hands over John’s body, not sure what he can touch without hurting him. The back of John’s coat is covered with rips and tears that extend through his jumper and shirt to his skin. Blood already stains his clothes and more slowly oozes from each laceration. 

Sherlock looks to Mycroft and, without exchanging a word, the two gently roll John over. A trail of blood runs down the side of his face, originating from beneath his hairline and he appears to be unconscious. Sherlock presses his fingers to John’s neck and finds a strong pulse. He nearly sighs in relief, but remembers his brother is kneeling right next to him.

“John,” he calls loudly. “John, open your eyes.”

The doctor’s eyes flutter open. Sherlock places a hand on either side of John’s face and guides his gaze toward his own. Saying his name again seems to bring John into focus and he looks at Sherlock dozily.

“Oh, hello,” John coughs and winces in pain. “Are you all right?”

“I’m calling in the medics,” Greg announces, appearing over Sherlock’s shoulder. “Christ, John.”

Sherlock turns to see the DI on his mobile. Both of them glance over to the other door where Sally and another officer have started to make their way in. As Greg barks orders into his phone, Sherlock returns his attention to John, whose eyes are closed again.

“John, look at me!” shaking his shoulder lightly. John opens heavy eyelids and smiles at his detective, his voice tired.

“I’m fine, Sherlock. All superficial.”

“He’s right,” Mycroft supplies from behind the detective.

“Shut it, Mycroft,” John and Sherlock say together. They pause to grin at one another. John shifts a bit and winces again. His flatmate gently holds his arms and helps him find a comfortable position. When Sherlock speaks again, his voice is soft and calm.

“Just keep talking to me, John.”

“I’m fine, hon. Don’t worry about me.”

Warmth shoots through all the parts of Sherlock’s body at the term of endearment. He wants to say something in return, but cannot determine what and eventually puts the notion aside when they hear sirens nearing the building. Instead, he smiles at John and helps prop up his head. Soon fire and medics will be in the flat digging them out. Sherlock finally allows himself a sigh of relief. He sits down next to John and talks to him until the medics are ready to put him on a stretcher.

***

A couple of hours later, Sherlock paces the waiting room while Mycroft sits and watches him stomp back and forth with his eyes.

“Relax, Sherlock.”

“Shut up. Shut up,” he barks vehemently, enunciating every consonant sharply.

“You saw the extent of his injuries as well as I. He’ll be fine.” Mycroft leans to the side casually and crosses his legs. Sherlock approaches him swiftly, waving his arms about angrily.

“Large broken objects fell on his body while he was shielding us! US! You and I! He could have any number of internal injuries. He lost consciousness!”

“Only for a moment,” Mycroft replies calmly. Sherlock huffs and turns his back. Mycroft’s brows rise and he adds in a cautious voice. “Perhaps now you see the logic in hiding until I…”

“NO!” he shouts, rounding on his brother. “Moriarty must be stopped **now** .”

“And you’re the one to do it? Damn the consequences?” Mycroft frowns and leans forward in his chair. “My dear Sherlock, you need to learn that you are not always the perfect man for the job.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to rip into the other man, but a physician in scrubs walks in and interrupts.

“Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes?” the brothers respond together. The doctor looks from one to the other with a confused grimace. Sherlock glares at Mycroft and then steps forward, introducing himself.

“I am Sherlock Holmes, yes.”

“Oh, good. I’m Dr. Elizabeth Stein. It’s good to meet you,” she offers her hand and the detective takes it in a firm handshake. She smiles easily and Sherlock already begins to feel reassured, in spite of himself. “Your husband is resting comfortably. He has cuts and bruises, mostly on his back. A few required stitches. I suspected minor concussion since he lost consciousness, but have ruled it out. I’d still like to keep him here for a few more hours for observation. If all goes well, he can leave today.”

“Of course,” the tension on Sherlock’s face eases. “May I see him?”

“Yes, certainly. This way.” She leads him from the room and down the hall, giving him more specifics on the way. She opens the door for him when they reach John’s room and adds one last thing. “He’s on an IV drip for slight dehydration, but it should be done soon.”

Sherlock nods and thanks her kindly. The door closes behind him when he enters. He stands with his back against it for a moment, slowly scanning John from head to toe, and then walks toward the bed quietly. John’s eyes are closed and, as much as Sherlock does not want to disturb him, he touches his hand gently. John turns his head to look at his detective. He smiles and raises his brows.

“Husband?” he asks in a quiet voice. The detective shrugs.

“So I wouldn’t have to argue about seeing you.”

“Ah.” A small smile dances across his lips. “Of course.”

“Don’t pretend you haven’t done it before,” Sherlock replies in mock offense, the corners of his mouth turned up. John laughs good-naturedly. 

“I haven’t, actually. I just tell them I’m your regular doctor.”

“There’s nothing regular about you.” Suddenly growing serious, Sherlock slides his hand down to twine their fingers together. John looks fondly at his flatmate. He can tell Sherlock is warring with his emotions. Keeping them in check so they don’t interfere with whatever is on his mind. It makes John all the more curious about what the man is thinking. He gives him an encouraging smile. Without breaking eye contact or altering his expression, Sherlock utters his next words quietly, but forcefully.

“This is unacceptable. You cannot continue to risk your life for mine.”

“You’d do the same.”

“John,” Sherlock continues matter-of-factly. “I think you should into hiding until I end this.”

“No.”

“John, you must. I need you to be safe.”

“NO!” John’s loud voice cuts deeply into the quiet of the room. Sherlock gapes at him in shock. John squeezes his hand and gives him a caring smile, hoping he understands that John is not angry with him, but he’ll be damned if he hides from Moriarty. EVER. “Sherlock, I am not hiding. I will never. Fucking. Hide. From Moriarty. And certainly not while you’re still looking for him. You’re in just as much danger as I am.”

“You are only in danger due to your proximity to me,” the detective corrects him. “If you were not with me, you would not be in danger.”

“And leave you to face him alone?” John huffs a laugh. “Not bloody likely. You get into even more trouble when I’m not around.” Sherlock gives him an incredulous look. John points at him in response, eyes sharp. “Don’t even try to deny it.”

“John, please,” Sherlock begins, trying to keep his emotions in check as he loses this battle with John. “Listen to me just this once.”

“No,” he says firmly and Sherlock’s shoulders sag, his eyes fall. John watches him carefully and narrows his eyes. “Something’s wrong. Tell me.”

Sherlock meets John’s eyes once more. He wants to tell John. He desperately wants John to understand his needs to protect him and agree to hide. He looks into those eyes and opens his mouth, but memories of Moriarty get in the way and his mouth closes. He looks away again, ashamed of his cowardice.

“I can’t.”

“Sherlock, look at me.” As soon as he turns back, John’s hands are on either side of his face. He looks determined again. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, it’ll be okay. We’ll protect each other. We’re in this together.”

John pulls him down for a kiss, soft and slow. Comforting, but strong. Sherlock sighs deeply when their lips part and rests his forehead against John’s.

“You are most certainly the love of my life. I had no concept of happiness until I met you. I knew as soon as you said amazing in the cab instead of telling me to piss off. And then you laughed. I knew then that I wanted to hear it for the rest of my life.”

“You never said anything. Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“I tried to deny it. I ignored it. Caring is not… Well, you know.”

John wets his lips and presses on. There is question that has been much on his mind ever since their row. Something he must know and must fix, if the answer he expects is the one he gets. He will never give up on Sherlock Holmes,  **never.** And he will not let him go without fighting for what they have together.

“Not long ago, you said Mycroft was wrong. That caring is everything,” biting his lip and searching his flatmate’s eyes. “Do you still believe that?”

Sherlock looks very serious. The look in his eyes chills John to the bone. He’s going to say it. Sherlock is going to fucking tell him that he has changed his mind. John moves his hands to Sherlock’s shoulders as he shakes his own head.

“No. Don’t say it,” John fumes. “Don’t you fucking say it.”

“Yes,” a deep baritone breathes. John’s eye pop open wide and he stares at his detective. “I do believe it. I won’t say caring is without challenges, but… My life changed the moment I admitted I love you and I will never take it back.”

John slides his hands down to rest on Sherlock’s chest and Sherlock closes long fingers around them. John tips up on his toes and closes his mouth over Sherlock’s, lightly flicking his tongue along those plush lips. Sherlock can’t help but moan in response.

Just then, Mycroft clears his throat from where he stands in the doorway. Sherlock turns. John is ready to breathe fire, barely listening as Mycroft informs Sherlock that Greg would like a word. John feels like he is going to explode. Mycroft Holmes has inserted himself into nearly every aspect of their lives in some way and has made no secret of his disdain for their relationship. John suddenly wants to punch that conceited expression right off his fucking face. He shifts in his bed and starts to push back the covers when five long, warm fingers cover his hand. He looks into silver eyes, his own sparkling with indignation.

“It’s fine. I’ll be right back and I will share with you whatever he tells me,” the detective gives him a small smile. “We’re in this together.”

After a short pause, John nods. Sherlock gives his hand a squeeze and walks to the door. He gives Mycroft a warning look as he passes and then he’s gone. John drops all pretense of pleasantry and starts in as soon as the door closes.

“Go into hiding, Mycroft? REALLY?!” His body is tingling with fury. He knows Sherlock doesn’t want him to get hurt. He can understand that, but hiding?? Sherlock would never suggest that without being pushed into it. “Sherlock is a grown man. Leave him the hell alone.”

“Mm…” the man replies cooly, “and he said he wouldn’t mention it. Interesting.”

“WHAT THE FUCK!” John’s patience has left him completely and his eyes burn at Mycroft’s nonchalance. “Just let him live his life. The life he choses! He doesn’t have to be lonely and bitter like you are.”

No longer trying to maintain his cool facade, Mycroft glares and steps very close to John. His voice is low and fierce.

“Do you think you’re the only one who can protect him?! I am attempting to keep this from becoming a disaster! Which is better, John? Physical or emotional harm?”

“I’m NOT going to hurt him,” John growls, jaw clenched and eyes blazing. The two men glare at one another in a battle of wills. Before either of them can speak again, the door opens and Sherlock walks in. He stops a few steps in and furrows his brow. 

“Don’t expect to control things you cannot,” Mycroft mutters, keeping his voice low, but not quite low enough. With that, he backs away from John to face his brother and the door. The typical fake smile on his face as he makes his way out.

“I wish you a speedy recovery, Dr. Watson. Do look after him, Sherlock. These hospital stays are becoming very tiresome.”

Mycroft closes the door behind, leaving the detective and his flatmate alone. Without a word, Sherlock walks to John’s bed and climbs on next to him. He wraps an arm around John’s waist and pulls him close, giving him an expectant look.

“A minor annoyance,” John says by way of explanation for what Sherlock walked in on.

“I would not say you and my brother have ever gotten along, but It’s not like you to let him get to you.”

“He’s being a particular pain in the ass,” John huffs. “Surely, you’ve noticed.”

“I always notice, but you are typically more tolerant.”

John presses his lips into a tight line. He intends to fight for Sherlock tooth and nail, no matter who gets in his way. Why should he make a secret of it? Sticking his tongue in his cheek, John rests his hands on Sherlock’s chest and looks at him with purpose.

“I love you. I have never felt this way for anyone before and I don’t intend to lose it. Your brother can do whatever he like, try to influence you however he can, but I will not give you up. I will never give you up. My sun rises and sets on you, Sherlock.”

His flatmate’s eyes are moist when John finishes. An almost silent sigh escapes his lips and he touches his fingertips to John’s cheek tentatively. He leans in and kisses the tip of John’s nose.

“I love you, John.”

A significant silence follows. An unspoken pledge passes between the two men. A promise that will resist Mycroft’s interference and Moriarty’s threats. One that will remain strong under all opposition. Sherlock rests his forehead against John’s and waits, as if to seal it. When he pulls back, he wears a devious smile. John furrows his brow, a corner of his mouth curving up, looking at his flatmate curiously as the detective alters his expression into a sultry one. John’s heart skips a beat just looking at those suggestive eyes and his cock twitches with interest. His eyes skim over Sherlock’s long, lean body quickly and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. God, how he wants Sherlock. To share his bed again and kiss him slowly, softly. Or maybe a bit harder. Peel off his clothing and run his lips over every inch of milky white chest. Over hard nipples and down his flat belly, passed his navel and lower. So much lower.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice snaps John out of his reverie and his eyes focus on the man before him again. Sherlock smiles widely and then swoops in for a kiss, but dodges John’s lips at the last moment and kisses his cheek instead. John shoves at him, giggling. Sherlock laughs outright and pulls John close.

“You tease!” John admonishes him jovially. Sherlock pecks his lips.

“And you love me for it.”

“I do.”

Sherlock’s heart flutters unexpectedly. He can’t imagine spending his life with anyone else and those two simple words have planted a seed in his mind. He quickly decides these new thoughts are for another time, becoming more serious again. He traces his fingers along the patterns on the hospital gown draped over John’s chest.

“Promise me you’ll be careful.”

“We promised each other, remember? Today was just a hiccup,” he kisses Sherlock firmly and then tousles his dark curls. “We’ll be fine.”

Sherlock smiles and draws the smaller man close, rolling his eyes when John pinches at his ass playfully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have said this before, but I apologize for any errors in spelling and whatnot. I edit myself and sometimes I see what I expect and miss things. I hope you're all enjoying it!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock reveals his theory on casseroles.  
> The detective and his blogger track down one of Moriarty's goons and Sherlock is nervous after John is shot at.  
> Sherlock visits John's room to explain his feelings.  
> John comforts him.  
> The boys get up to something. (infamous eyebrow waggle)

After returning home, things for the duo pretty much went back to normal. They have tackled a ridiculous number of cases, persisted with the search for Moriarty, and made sure to spend the uneventful moments relaxing in one another’s arms. To John’s surprise, Sherlock has been the one to mention and then insist upon cuddling. Not that he has any complaints, of course. Aside from still sleeping in his own room. All cuddles and snuggles have remained confined to the sofa with absolutely no adventures into one another’s bedrooms.

Needless to say, John is not entirely happy with things are at the moment, but he doesn’t want to push Sherlock into something he isn’t ready for in much the same way Sherlock does not want to rush John. The idea that the detective is constantly worried about something has not left John’s mind. All of the tells Sherlock adamantly insists he does not have are there. Moriarty threatened him and not just an idle threat, one that cut Sherlock down to the bone. He said it wasn’t murder. It’s something worse, much worse. Torture perhaps? That fits with Moriarty’s ‘Burn your heart’ mantra. John considers this for a moment while he sets the table for dinner. Burning. Sherlock said it. He said it himself. 

“‘What better way to burn me’,” John mumbles to himself. “‘You are my heart, John’. He knows. Moriarty knows.” John heads over to the oven, puts on the oven mitts, and removes the casserole. He walks back and sets it in the center of that table. Kidnapping. It has to be kidnapping and then putting him on the pyre or in a burning building. Suppose he intends to make Sherlock watch. 

John is pulled from his rather horrifying thoughts when Sherlock rushes by the kitchen table, not even seeing John or the meal he has prepared. John clears his throat and puts his hands on his hips.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

The tall man stops abruptly and turns to face John. He blinks in surprise.

“You cooked?”

“Obviously,” he grins, taking a page from Sherlock’s book. “I got off earlier than I expected. Sarah needed a favor, so I had time to make dinner, but it means I’ll be working late on Wednesday. Now why don’t you sit and tell me where you’re off to?”

“I don’t have time for that,” the detective replies impatiently.

“Make time.”

“Do you not agree that catching Moriarty is of the utmost importance?”

“Yes, I do, but not more than sustenance.”

“But I ate breakfast!” Sherlock winges.

“Humans need to eat every 4-6 hours, Sherlock, and you are definitely human.”

“I have received several other opinions on that,” he mumbles. John raises his brows and uses John Watson Expression #3: Don’t test me. Sherlock quickly became acquainted with it after they met. He smiles at John sheepishly.

“Sit. Down,” John says firmly. Sherlock approaches the table, his expression changing from timid to coy. John sees it immediately and knows what he’s planning. “Oh, don’t even try it.”

“Try what?” Sherlock queries with a sly, but innocent smile.

“You know very well what,” John warns as the detective comes closer, smile bordering on wicked. “This is also the perfect time to mention that you promised not to run off on your own. On a case or after Moriarty. We agreed. So, sit your ass down and tell me where you’re going.”

“You’re vexed with me,” Sherlock frowns, a playful gleam in his eye.

“Let’s say…miffed. Now sit and have dinner with me.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, steps closer, and fixes him with what John once described as “Come fuck me” eyes. When he speaks his voice flows silkily from his lips, an octave lower than usual.

“How can I make it up to you?”

“Don’t you dare,” John points a warning finger at him and takes a step back in spite of himself. Sherlock steps ever closer, a slow smile spreading across his face that is pure sex. John lets out an unsteady breath. “Stop it, Sherlock. It won’t work.”

“What won’t work?” he asks, moving directly in front of the smaller man. John shivers at that low voice and feels a not at all unpleasant tingling at the small of his back. Sherlock’s face is so close to his own that their noses nearly touch. Sherlock exhales slowly, the breath blowing across John’s lips. Gazing into John’s eyes, he inches closer and then mouths his way along his flatmate’s jawline to nibble his ear.

“Oh, god,” John has a full body shudder when Sherlock lightly touches his earlobe with the tip of his tongue. “You bastard.”

“Dinner looks delicious, John,” Sherlock’s warm breath blows in his ear with every word. “A casserole, no?”

“Casserole, yeah,” he whispers breathlessly.

“Most casseroles actually…benefit from reheating… If we wait…” he continues, nipping John’s ear and adding quick licks. John gasps and tries not to grab Sherlock by the lapels and shove him backward onto the table. “…it will taste even better.”

“All right,” John growls in both frustration and lust. “You can go.”

Sherlock smiles smugly as he moves away, but John catches his arm before he gets too far.

“But I’m coming with you.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He slides a hand around John’s waist and kisses him full on the mouth. John can feel himself hardening in his pants and tries to keep his lower half from touching Sherlock. That’s all he needs now. The git will be insufferable enough as it is without adding fuel to the fire. 

When the kiss ends, said git grabs the casserole off the table and plops it in the fridge. How he didn’t burn his hands, John will never know. He trots passed his blogger with a fond smile and stops by the door to look back at him.

“Well, are you coming?” he cocks a brow.

John sighs and quickly adjusts himself while Sherlock’s back is turned. He follows the taller man into the hall and grabs his coat as they pass through the door.

“I can’t believe I let you get away with that,” he grumbles on their way down the stairs. Sherlock glances his way and smirks. John catches a glimpse and curses to himself. “God damn it.”

****

After an eventful evening of tracking Moriarty including, but not limit to, being shot at by one of his operatives, John strips off his clothes and climbs into bed. He normally sleeps in pants and a t-shirt, but all of he feels too dirty to put on something clean and he doesn’t have the energy to change anyway. In fact, John had briefly considered a shower and fresh clothes when they first entered the flat. An idea he quickly dismissed when Sherlock mumbled goodnight and disappeared into his own room. His flatmate’s despondence made him feel suddenly very tired.

John lets out a deep breath and sinks into the mattress. Closing his eyes, he runs through the more dramatic events of the evening, stop[ing only when he reaches the face. Moriarty’s lackey had taken a couple of shots at them and then a few more at just John when he returned fire. In the end, John’s precision aim was apparently enough to motivate the man to run. They gave chase, but lost him on foot. All in all, not an unusual night for them.

But that face. The moment they knew they had lost Moriarty’s foot soldier, John had looked at Sherlock. He had expected to see irritation at having failed in their pursuit, but Sherlock wore an expression of fear instead. He had looked at John as if his entire world was tied up in some crisis and John was at the center of it. He didn’t utter a word, however, just turned away to get them a cab home.

John opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling, momentarily lost in that face. The door to his room opening slowly catches his attention. He pushes up on his elbows to see his flatmate entering, silently shuffling in.

“Sherlock, you okay?” John asks in a hushed voice, cringing at how loud he sounds. The rumpled detective looks back at John with uncertainty. He’s wearing pajama bottoms and a light blue tee, and his curls are mussed from running fingers through them repeatedly. He looks very young and vulnerable. Immediately worried, John sits up and flicks on the bedside lamp so he can see his flatmate clearly. His blankets drop to pool at his waist, though it doesn’t occur to him that he is now sitting topless before his best friend.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Sherlock looks at the floor a moment and then meets John’s eyes. He licks his lips, fingers pulling at the bottom of his tee nervously.

“I was… May I join you?”

“Why?” John asks with a little laugh. “I don’t hear any thunder.”

“Please,” Sherlock’s voice is low and serious. John’s smile fades and he shoves over to make room.

“Yes, of course.”

Without hesitation, Sherlock scurries to the bed and climbs under the covers with John. They sort of grin at each other nervously and lie down. John stares at the ceiling. He wants to talk to Sherlock, wants to find out what’s wrong once and for all. Why does he want to be with John at this very moment and not alone in his room? Why does he smell so damn good? 

 John blinks and shakes his head a little. He can’t lose his head just because Sherlock is in his bed. His flatmate clearly needs help or he wouldn’t be in John’s room in his bed with him and… John’s eyes go wide in panic. Holy shit! He’s naked! John shoots a side glance at the man next to him, trying not to move his head and give himself away. Shit shit shit. Has he noticed John isn’t wearing anything? What will he do once he does?

 Suddenly, Sherlock flounces around to face the small man. John turns his head slowly and meets his flatmate’s silver gaze. Sherlock’s lips are parted ever so slightly, words on the tip of his tongue. John looks at him with equal parts curiosity and horror. As perceptive as he is, the detective seems to have no idea that John is completely starkers under the soft covers. Maybe he can get away with this.

 John tries to relax. He smiles affectionately and brushes a curl from Sherlock’s forehead. He leans into John’s touch and smiles back. Neither says a word for a few long minutes until Sherlock reaches for John’s hand and brings it to his mouth. John gasps when he kisses his palm and then brings it to rest over his heart. John’s fingers are warmed by the touch of Sherlock’s skin, even through the thin shirt over his pectorals.

 “When he shot at you,” Sherlock begins quietly.

“I’ve been shot at before.”

“I know,” he says quickly. “Obviously, I know, but this was different. I felt… The world stopped. It just stopped until I knew you were all right.”

“Happens to me too,” John smiles tenderly. “Now you know why I made you promise not to go off on your own.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen and he looks like he understands John for the first time. He lifts his other hand and cups John’s face, tilting his head slightly against the pillow and drawing John into a soft kiss. Their lips gently press together again and again as they breathe the same breath. When Sherlock finally pulls away, his hand sliding to John’s shoulder, he exhales and opens his eyes.

“I love you,” he says with a smile on his lips.

“I love you too.”

Sherlock puffs out a quiet laugh and traces his fingers down John’s ribs to his side. Remembering he isn’t wearing anything beneath the covers, John nearly grabs Sherlock’s hand to keep him going further, but the detective stops well above his naked waist. John sighs with relief. Maybe he actually CAN get away with this. 

“You know,” Sherlock murmurs, “I rather like sharing a bed with you. Wedded bliss.”

John looks at him full-on with sharp eyes.

“We’re not married.”

They stare into each other’s eyes intently until Sherlock finally glances away, breaking the spell. When he meets John’s eyes again, his own are soft and sleepy. The corners of his mouth curl as he pecks John’s lips.

“We should get some sleep.” He tilts his chin down a little and looks up at John again through his long lashes. A shiver runs the length of John’s spine. “Can I stay?”

“Not fair. And, yes, you can stay.”

Sherlock smiles brightly and moves his hand down John’s side to his waist before John thinks to stop him. His eyes slips closed in regret and Sherlock gasps in surprise, his fingers searching John’s smooth skin somewhat frantically for a second expecting to find a waistband lower down on John’s hips. He stills his hand just off the side of John’s left buttock, realizing that he is more or less groping around at his flatmate’s nether regions. 

When John finally sighs and opens his eyes, they are both frozen in time. Neither man knows what to do, so neither moves a muscle as they study one another with wide eyes. While they have shared a bed before, many times in fact, they have both always been fully dressed for it, especially from the waist down. 

Sherlock’s hand is hot on John’s hip, his fingertips grazing his bum. What the fuck should he do now? He just let his flatmate climb into his bed and snuggle up without bothering to warn the man that he was naked, or even trying to put anything on first. Christ, Sherlock must think he’s a complete dick.

John speaks first, but still doesn’t move, for fear the detective will leap up and run away.

“Shit,” he begins earnestly. “Sherlock, I’m so sorry. You came in and looked so upset. And I was so tired, I just took off my clothes and got into bed. I didn’t think about it when you asked to join me and I said yes. I wasn’t trying to take advantage, I promise you.”

Sherlock continues to stare, motionless, uttering not a word. Just when John wishes he could disappear into the darkest hole in all of England, Sherlock’s lips crack apart and he laughs. John watches him incredulously as he throws his head back, his deep voice ringing through the room. Sherlock looks at him with a wide grin.

“Oh, John. I know that. You would never…” He stops, suddenly struck with a wicked idea. John watches his eyes darken. “I, on the other hand…”

His hand slides over John’s hip, his fingers resting fully on the ample curve of John’s ass. John’s hand is instantly on Sherlock’s, holding it still and preventing it from going any further.

“Don’t.”

For a moment, he is searching John’s eyes in surprise. John hopes he isn’t broadcasting every thought and emotion running through his mind, but is sure he probably is. Sherlock knows him too well not to ascertain his motives. Then John sees it, the recognition in Sherlock’s sharp eyes.

“You’re not ready.”

“No. Yes. I mean,” John is flustered and he sighs. “I AM ready…for some things.”

John’s eyes dart around, looking at anything but the detective. He doesn’t know how to explain that he’s been with men before, but the thought of being with Sherlock Holmes is absolutely petrifying. He wants him so much. He loves him so much, and that’s the difference. Having sex with someone you like is one thing, experimenting is nothing. Sex with someone you love, especially this much, is life altering. 

Sherlock touches John’s chin and guides it until their eyes meet. John’s breath catches in his throat and he lets his detective reads every feeling in his heart - anticipation, apprehension, fear. John opens his mouth and draws in a breath, but the words won’t come.

“What are you afraid of, John?”

John furrows his brow with worry and licks his lips. He glances at Sherlock’s chin, searching for what to say and raises his gaze again.

“I don’t want to disappoint you.”

Sherlock’s heart melts. He shakes his head and smiles fondly at John.

“You won’t disappoint me. You can’t,” he cups John’s face with both hands. “Whatever you’re ready for, whenever you’re ready for it is perfect.  _ You _ set the pace.”

“You’re much too understanding,” John laughs quietly.

“Now that is something I have never heard before.”

They both laugh, resting their foreheads together, but John goes quiet when Sherlock replaces his hand on his bare hip. John pulls back apprehensively and rests his own hand over those long fingers. 

“There’s more to it than that,” he breathes. “I have never felt this way about anyone and it scares me. Being with you this way… I want it so much, but I, I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t. We were made to be together, John. We fit,” he smiles. “Perfectly.”

John stares and lurches forward, closing the gap between them, covering Sherlock’s mouth with his own. He licks at that delicious tongue. Desire quickly bubbles up from the growing heat in his belly. He releases Sherlock’s hand so he can wrap all ten fingers around his head, tangling them dark curls.

The two men continue hungrily - licking and biting, caressing tongues over lips and jawlines and necks. Sherlock’s hand slides onto John’s ass and grasps it hard, pulling their hips together tightly. John can’t help but notice how well they fit against each other, like two puzzle pieces, just before his mind stops working completely.

Sherlock is rocking his hips in a rhythm that John matches stroke for stroke. The thin layer of clothing Sherlock wears does nothing to prevent John from feeling the friction of their stiff cocks rubbing together. They are perfectly aligned. John feels the wet of precome leaking from his own slit on his belly. With a growl, he grabs Sherlock’s pajama bottoms with both hands and yanks them down, bringing his pants with them. He wraps his fingers around them both and gives them one long, luxurious stroke.

Sherlock moans loudly and lets his head fall back. He is breathing hard and holding tight to John’s ass. He tilts his chin down again and gazes at John with half-closed eyes, dark as the night sky. John stills his hand and stares straight at him, waiting, studying, asking permission. The detective gives him a slight nod. John’s mouth curls into a sultry grin and he kisses along Sherlock’s jawline to his neck. The detective tilts his head back again, exposing more of his gorgeous neck in invitation. John resumes stroking them both, rocking his hips in time with the pulls. Sherlock matches his pace and groans his name in pleasure, as John leans in closer to suck on that spectacular column of neck.

Soon Sherlock is thrusting hard against John and John’s hand is moving faster than he ever thought possible. It’s all so intense, and glorious. John has woke from countless dreams just like this and given himself a wank before he could get out of bed and get on with his day. Everyday next to this mad genius he loves, wanting and not daring to say anything. 

Shit. John’s body starts to stutter and his hand begins to lose its rhythm. He clutches at the small of Sherlock’s back in an effort to steady himself and keep the pace. It works and god, he’s so close. He knows Sherlock is too. The tension in his body, along with unpredictable jerking twitches, give him away. John pants into Sherlock’s neck and tugs on their cocks roughly. Sherlock gasps and cries out John’s name, his release hot on John’s belly and hand. John curses loudly and closes his fist tighter, moves it faster, and then he feels it. A light touch between his cheeks and fingers feathering over his puckering hole. John shouts and his hips pop, his hole contracts and an orgasm racks mercilessly through his body. Ribbons of semen spurt from his cock, soaking Sherlock’s right shoulder and a corner of his pillow. 

John’s eyes are open, but he sees nothing but stars. His entire body tingles with pleasure and tension and release. A bead of sweat trickles down from his temple, though he doesn’t notice it.  His hand is still stroking them both, but slower and softer, seeing them through the aftershocks and bringing them down. He is mildly aware of Sherlock’s hot breath panting over his face. John grins, breathing just as quickly as the man in his arms. He takes the hand from Sherlock’s back and slides it under his tee to touch his bare skin. It is hot and wet, smooth skin stretched over hard muscle.

“Oh,” John sighs loudly at the body beneath his fingers and nearly comes again, even as he let his hand drop limply between their bodies. Sherlock wipes the sweat from John’s face and kisses him roughly, which suits John just fine. He licks into the detective’s mouth fervently and brings a hand up to cup his cheek.

They both gasp when their lips part and pant into one another’s mouths, their hands roaming and caressing.

“Christ, Sherlock, that was… Fuck me.”

“My sentiments exactly. God, that was amazing,” he nips at John’s chin and lips, but stops and looks into John’s eyes with a certain trepidation in his own. “I said I wasn’t going to rush you.” 

“I’m not complaining,” John laughs. “Do I look rushed to you?”

Sherlock continues to look at him with concern and even pulls his head back more for a better angle of John’s face. He knows the detective wants to read his expression, so he lets him, and beams from ear to ear.

“If you hadn’t noticed, I’m the one who yanked your pants down and came all over you.”

“You did make a bit of a mess,” he smiles mischievously, glancing down at his own chest and shoulder. 

“Are you complaining?” John smirks and cocks a brow. Sherlock envelopes him in his slender arms and kisses him.

“Not a bit.”

They lie together in one another’s arms for what feels like forever until John decides they should clean up before things get sticky. He pops out of bed and fetches a damp flannel from the loo. When he returns to the bedroom, having already wiped himself up, he finds a very naked Sherlock lying on his back and straddles him swiftly. John pauses to grin at his lover and then cleans off what seeped through the thin tee onto his shoulder, chest, and belly carefully. Sherlock smiles up at him all the while and runs his fingers up and down John’s thighs gently.

John drops the flannel on the floor next to the bed once he has finished and growls, swooping down to kiss his dishevelled detective. Pressing their naked bodies together and reveling in every inch of contact, John takes his time kissing and licking at the man beneath him. Sherlock hums his approval and eventually stares up at John with such feeling as John has never seen.

“God, I love you.”

Glee plays at John’s lips and he kisses those plush lips softly once more. He settles himself next to Sherlock for the night, pressed up against his body, his head resting on the curve of Sherlock’s shoulder. John brushes a damp curl from his forehead.

“I love you too, Sherlock Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's one more chapter in this part, friends, and the boys are getting ever closer to Jim as their relationship grows.  
> What ever will happen?  
> Da da DAAAAAAA!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim's game comes to an end.

After a few more days of intense investigation, both searching for Moriarty and solving other cases, the detective and his blogger spend the day tirelessly focusing on the man who has slowly become the bane of their existence. They find themselves at the entrance of a familiar building. One they were both on the roof of not long ago. The cabbie, the catapult, and now here they are again. Moriarty’s plan coming full circle - beginning, middle, and end.

John steels himself as he follows the building up with his eyes, all the way to its roof. They have been here twice before and John saved Sherlock’s life both times. He shot the cabbie through two windows, a crack shot that only John could have made. And then the catapult, the burning rope. This final chapter is sure to involve fire again. John’s blood chills at the thought. Keeping an eye on Sherlock is without question, but he must watch his own back just as carefully. He will not be forced to stand idly by while Sherlock is made to watch him burn. Moriarty will not win and John is prepared to see that he doesn’t at all cost.

His gaze slides over to the tall man standing next to him. He also stares up at the building, a small smile on his face. The detective looks somewhat excited, which John expects, but there is a hesitation to his demeanor, a kind of worry John has never seen before. What does Sherlock know that he won’t tell John? Is it just that John is Moriarty’s target or is there something else? Why won’t Sherlock just tell him?

“He’s here, John,” Sherlock says just as John had opened his mouth to speak. “This is the end game.”

He walks to the door and opens it. He glances back at John before stepping through into the building. Taking one last look around and wishing they had called Greg, John follows him quietly. They stand side by side in the entryway.

“How predictable that he chose to end it here. I should’ve seen it weeks ago.”

“Sherlock..”

“Be careful, John,” the detective interrupts. He is suddenly standing before John like a blockade, as if he intends to shove him back out the door. Annoyance flashes in John’s eyes as he stares down his flatmate.

“Of course I’ll be careful. I’m always careful.”

The touch of Sherlock’s hand on his stops him from continuing the snit or pushing passed. John reflexively looks at their hands and then back at Sherlock.

“Please be careful, John,” Sherlock says again quietly and deadly serious. “His aim was to kill me. It is not his only one now.”

Feeling the gravity of those words in his bones, John nods solemnly. Sherlock squeezes his hand and turns to face the room. Taking a few steps in, both men scan their surroundings - doorways, windows, furniture, anything that could hide a bomb or trap. John wets his lips and looks over at Sherlock. As much as he doesn’t want to leave him alone, they will cover ground more quickly if they split up, and he knows it will be mere seconds before the detective suggests it. If he can at least keep him off the roof.

“I’ll take the top two floors and you do the bottom?” John ventures in a low voice.

“I’ll take the top.”

John wants to say no. He wants to argue his point, but they haven’t the time. If they waste time, Moriarty will get the upper hand for sure. John nods, steps away slowly, and starts toward a door to the next room. He resolves to get through the bottom floors as fast as he can and join Sherlock again.

“Am I still the emergency contact on your phone?” Sherlock whispers before John gets too far away. He nods again. “Likewise. We find one another as soon as we’re done or if we signal.”

“Perfect. See you soon,” his eyes soften into an almost pleading. “Be careful.”

Sherlock nods and gives him a confident smile. John smiles back, but less certain, and disappears through a door.

Sherlock ascends the stairs and treads quietly through the top floors. He enters the stairwell again to head down and find John, but hesitates to glance up the stairs that lead to the roof. He looks down the stairs that lead to John and then turns to walk up to the roof. Taking his mobile from his coat pocket, he dials John’s number and holds the receiver away from his mouth so John can’t hear the relieved sigh when his voice comes through.

“Nothing so far. I’m going to the roof.”

“I’ll be there.”

Sherlock wets his lips and says John’s name again before he can stop himself. He shouldn’t say anything. He knows he shouldn’t say anything that will rattle John or take him off his game, and he’s almost certain Moriarty is on the roof, but suppose he isn’t. What if he’s down there with John and Sherlock didn’t say anything to warn him?

“If he’s down there, if you meet him on the way up here, don’t go anywhere.” The words burst from his mouth and he closes his eyes immediately. He sounds like an idiot.

“What?” confusion fills John’s voice. “Sherlock, what..?”

“Don’t let him take you anywhere, John,” the detective says quickly. “Promise me!”

“I won’t, I won’t,” John wants to ask him why. God, he wants to ask so many questions, but instead he just says, “I’ll be right there.”

When Sherlock reaches the top of the stairs, he opens the door on the landing and steps through. Scanning every detail as he goes, he walks around the heating and cooling units. He can see no sign of Moriarty, but knows he is here.

A crack sounds a few yards to his left and he whips his head around, ready for the games to begin. There is no one there. Nothing, but the roof’s edge. Almost as if another force has control, Sherlock walks right to the edge and looks down at the cement below. First, it is a blank slate. Empty, but for a skip and a black cat skulking by. Then suddenly a vision appears of his own body lying in a pool of blood and people all around. Two of them try to drag John away, even as he grasps at Sherlock’s wrist in a desperate attempt to find a pulse. The small man’s voice echoes through his ears, a broken plea. ‘He’s my friend. Please, he’s my friend.’ 

Sherlock staggers backward, gasping and clutching at his chest. Feelings so intense rush through his brain, like being struck in the face - fear, dread, and a crippling anguish. He immediately pulls the mobile from his pocket and hits emergency before he can even stop to think about what he is doing. As he begins raising it to his ear, he hears footsteps from behind and that familiar high-pitched voice.

“Hello, Sherlock. I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Then you should have come to meet me instead of making me look,” Sherlock quips, turning to face Moriarty. “Very inconsiderate.”

“I always consider you,” he smirks. Moriarty can’t seem to help but laugh hysterically. In spite of himself and all the murderers he has dealt with in the past, Sherlock find himself very ill at ease looking into Moriarty’s eyes as he laughs. “What’s wrong, Sherlock? You seem troubled.” 

Sherlock doesn’t answer, but returns Moriarty’s glare. The man’s smile has vanished, replaced by a mask of evil. He takes a couple of steps toward the detective, who tucks the mobile heis still holding behind his long coat.

“You wouldn’t come alone,” Moriarty continues almost pleasantly with a gleam in his eye. “Where’s our gorgeous doctor?”

“At home,” he answers, his face revealing nothing. Moriarty clicks his tongue and shakes his head, approaching Sherlock casually.

“Lies, Sherlock. Lies do not become you. He’d never let you come here alone,” he tilts his head. “His protective side is so endearing.”

“Leave John out of this,” Sherlock commands. “This is between the two of us.”

“That’s so true, Sherlock, so true,” he laughs and then his face is taken over by a grin so sinister it makes the detective’s blood freeze right in his veins. “We’re two of a kind, you and I. But John…” He looks at Sherlock playfully and raises a gun. Sherlock is displeased, but not at all surprised. “He is involved now. I told you at the pool that the two of you could not be allowed to continue. And he will. He saved you from my messenger and my catapult. I was VERRRY disappointed by that one. I so wanted to see you fly. Oh, no, no. There’s no escape for John.”

“Then I’ll have to kill you myself.”

“Oh-ho!” he laughs again, this time in mock surprise. “It really is so sweet how you look after each other. Hmm-hmm. I’d like to see you try, seeing as you have something of a disadvantage.”

“Do you think so? Because I see it very differently,” Sherlock taunts. “It won’t be at all hard to outsmart you. I’ve done it before, lest you forget.” Sherlock smiles. “You’ve let your anger cloud your mind.”

Moriarty’s smile fades again and he scowls, but with a knowing look in his eye. He trains the barrel of his gun on the detective’s chest.

“Oh, you’re so cocky, Sherlock. So cocky. You think you can solve anything, beat anyone. But I’m going to beat you. I’m your equal. Your mirror image.” He tilts his head and looks at the taller man thoughtfully. “Do you think John will love me the way he loves you?”

Sherlock snarls and advances, but stops short after only a few steps. Not because Moriarty has fired his weapon, but because he hears footsteps on the roof.

“Sherlock.”

“Ah,” Moriarty turns and faces John with a mad look in his eye, his gun still on Sherlock. “If it isn’t the delectable John Watson. So good of you to join us, Doctor.”

John gives him a look and then glances at Sherlock, who meets John’s eyes for a moment. It’s an expression of warning with worry around the edges. They return their eyes to Moriarty.

“Oh, this is so touching. Would you two like a moment?” Moriarty gestures to his left. “I can step over here, if you like.”

“Sod off.”

“Temper, John, temper.”

“Enough!” Sherlock shouts, finally losing his patience. He can tolerate many things, but James Moriarty speaking to John Watson is not one of them.

The other two men look at Sherlock, who is absolutely fuming. He had suspected from the moment they arrived that Moriarty would be on the roof. After their last episode here, it was the only logical place and when John had suggested he go to the roof first, Sherlock’s heart stopped. He desperately wanted to keep John away from Moriarty, but here they are, and why? Because he couldn’t keep himself from calling John after that damn vision. And why the hell hadn’t he ended the call? Why did he let John listen to his exchange with Moriarty as he climbed the stairs to the roof? He personally summoned John and brought him face to face with the very danger from which he wanted to protect him. Furious with himself, he continues shouting.

“Get on with it! Why are we here?”

“A fair question and one that’s been much on your mind, I’m sure. ‘Why would Jim want to meet me on the roof?’ Hmm… What do you think, Sherrrrlock?”

“Star gazing?” he ventures, cocking a brow angrily. Moriarty bursts with laughter.

“Not a bad guess, but no.”

“Turning yourself in right now would be the smartest thing you’ve ever done,” John interrupts.

“Oh, John, you’re adorable,” Moriarty looks at him with wide, vicious eyes and pulls his trigger. The bullet flies just passed Sherlock’s head, nicking his ear. The detective flinches and turns his head away from his enemy for a split second, his body leaning with it before he looks back at the man. 

Meanwhile, John is possessed with white hot fury. He jumped at Moriarty when he fired, but stopped immediately when he saw that look in his eyes. John has seen that look before, many times. On the battlefield, on cases with Sherlock, and now. It is the look of a madman who wants more than anything to kill someone you love and make sure you blame yourself for it. A man who wants you to live with that pain forever so he can revel in it. 

John stands stalk still. He cannot risk Sherlock. He is breathing heavily and giving Moriarty a death glare.

“The gun you’re carrying,” the villain says smoothly, “put it on the ground and kick it away. Carefully.”

John bristles and takes a step forward instead.

“John.”

He meets Sherlock’s eyes. His flatmate is warning him. They exchange a meaningful look.

“Oh, for Christ sake! Just drop the fucking gun!” Moriarty shouts, shooting the roof next to Sherlock’s left foot. John’s eyes dart back to him and he raises his hands. 

“It’s behind my back. I’ll go slow,” John says, moving cautiously. Once his gun is on the ground, he kicks it to his right, away from all three of them.

“Perfect. Thank you, John,” Moriarty shifts his weight to one leg. “What shall we do now, hm? Sherlock, you owe me a fall.”

Sherlock merely cocks a brow in response and gives him the most smartass expression John has ever seen on his face. He exhales deeply and tries to figure a way out of this. He had a plan when he had his gun. Shit, he had a plan before Moriarty started shooting and then it all went to hell. John clenches his jaw and vows to protect Sherlock no matter the consequences.

“Easy enough to remedy, isn’t it? We’re on the roof, Sherlock. You’re close to the edge. Jump.”

Sherlock’s lips curl into a smirk. John looks at him with wide eyes, his mouth open in disbelief.

“And why would I do that?”

“Ha! Is that even a question?” he flashes a devilish grin and drops his tone to a menacing growl. “I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you. … Now.”

Moriarty turns quickly and fires at John. The bullet hits him in the chest, knocking him backwards, and right off the roof. The detective wasn’t the only one who was close to the edge. Sherlock’s face twists and his body shudders.

“JOHN!” he screams and lurches forward, but Moriarty acts quickly, tackling Sherlock to the ground and hitting him in the back with the butt of his gun to keep him down. He tangles his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and yanks his head back, forcing his eyes to focus on where John just flew off the roof. He leans down and whispers in his enemy’s ear.

“How does it feel, Sherlock, to have your heart burn from the inside out?” Moriarty releases his hair and rolls him over with a swift push of his foot. He kicks him once in the side to make sure he stays down. The detective clenches his teeth and groans in fury, as Moriarty pushes his gun against Sherlock’s throat. He glares into Moriarty’s eyes, hate dripping from his very being. “Too bad about John. I really wanted to fuck him. Enjoy his funeral.”

He whips the gun barrel across Sherlock’s throat, leaving him gasping in pain, and runs for the stairs. Catching his breath and getting to his feet, Sherlock stumbles forward with one hand gripping his own throat. He stops for a moment to steady himself, coughing painfully, and then hurries to the edge where John fell. He looks down, expecting to see John far below, but instead finds John lying on another rooftop roughly six feet below. With all that had passed, Sherlock hadn’t realized that John was standing on the side of the building that butts up against a smaller structure. The man still lies motionless. 

“John! John!”

He runs for the stairwell and crashes through doors, smashing his way into the other building. Frantically dialing for emergency services as he goes. He doesn’t stop until he steps out onto the other roof. He runs to John’s body, a pool of blood already forming around him. It drains from his chest steadily, right above his heart. Bone juts out of John’s skin a few inches above his knee and bleeding heavily. It must have broken on impact.  

Fearing the worst, Sherlock ties his scarf tightly around the top of John’s thigh. He pulls off his coat, bunches it up, and presses it on John’s chest hard. John’s eyes open and he gasps a breath in. The pain hits him immediately.

“Jesus. Sherlock,” he groans in an alien voice.

“No, John, don’t talk. I called 999. They’ll be here soon. Just…just don’t…”

“Sherlock,” he tries to grab Sherlock’s arm. “Oh, god!”

“Don’t move, John.”

“Sherlock, don’t blame yourself,” he gasps for air and meets Sherlock’s eyes. “Don’t…nothing you could do.”

“John, no. No,” Sherlock presses harder on John’s chest. “John, please.”

“Take care...of yourself,” John whispers disjointedly, struggling to stay conscious. His hand finds Sherlock’s hair and tries to stroke through the curls. “No drugs. Please. I love you.”

“John, don’t go. No. No.”

“I...Sheh-lock…” John gasps and swallows and tries to speak. He has to tell Sherlock. He must tell Sherlock. “I...seh-oogen.”

“Shhh. Please, John.” A tear drips from Sherlock’s eye and lands on John’s cheek. He looks up at his detective with wide eyes. Eyes that go blank and then slip closed. The hand cradling Sherlock’s head falls limply at his side. More tears fall from Sherlock’s eyes as he looks down at his flatmate’s broken face.

“John, no. John!” he clutches his wrist tightly, but feels nothing. “Oh, god. Come back. Come back! Please, John… John.”

Sherlock touches John’s face gently, tears streaming down his own. He bends down to kiss John’s forehead gently and again on his lips. He rests his head on his tangled coat, wraps his arms around the small man’s body, and hugs him close.

***

Sherlock stands before John’s coffin. The service is over. A large crowd was in attendance - coworkers, friends, old professors and people who studied with him in medical school, military who served with him. The list goes on. Sherlock has no idea how all of them found out about the funeral or where they came from. As they leave, nearly all of them stop to give Sherlock quiet condolences, having read of his adventures with John in the blog. He does his best to be friendly, in honor of John, but wishes nothing more than to be left alone.

When that time finally comes, memories of John fill his mind. It’s as though every word, every expression and touch plays out while he watches with longing. He closes his eyes, feeling the pain of his own thoughts and knowing that he can never close this door in his mind palace. He inhales deeply trying to accept his new life, cocking his head to one side when he feels Mycroft approaching.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry.”

“Leave it. There’s nothing you can say that I haven’t heard already.”

“I hope you have taken at least some comfort in the well wishes of others. He will be greatly missed,” Mycroft continues in a quiet voice. Sherlock rolls his eyes and keeps his gaze on the coffin before him.

“Just go.”

“Please remember that John loves you, Sherlock. Don’t do anything he wouldn’t approve of.”

Sherlock gives him a sharp, but curious look. Mycroft simply looks back with soft eyes. Sherlock raises an eyebrow and nods minutely. He turns back to the coffin as Mycroft walks away.

“John,” he places a hand on the coffin and sighs a shaking breath. His voice is broken when he continues. “I’ve never known anyone like you and never will again. I was so alone before you and didn’t even know. You are the love of my life, John Watson.” 

He looks down at his feet, tears falling from both eyes. As he begins to sob as his legs buckle and he falls to his knees before the pine box.

“My god, John. I miss you already,” he swallows hard. “I know I ask too much of you as it is, but do this one last thing for me, please.” He hides his face in his hands. “Don’t be dead.”

Some distance away, Mycroft opens the door to his customary black car and climbs in. He meets Anthea’s eyes as it begins to move, driving away from the cemetery. She nods, knowing what is on his mind and looks back at her phone. With that taken care of, Mycroft turns his head slowly to face the small man sitting in the seat next to him. He is staring out the tinted window, watching Sherlock until the very last minute. His chest is bruised beneath his jumper and his leg is encased in a cast. His jaw is clenched, its muscles working and his lips are pressed together in a thin line. His deep blue eyes shine with tears.

“He’ll be safe now,” Mycroft begins, “With you dead, Moriarty will lose interest for a time and we will put an end to James Moriarty before that interest is rekindled.”

John meets his eyes with fierce determination and snaps his chin in a sharp nod.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate me.   
> And stay tuned for Persistence: Part 2!


	8. Not Really a Chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter one of Persistence: Part 2 is up!!  
> I connected it to the series, but is it a work that stands on its own. Please, if you like Part 1, go read Part 2 and see the story continue.

What I said in the summary.  
Get thee to Persistence: Part 2!  
...please...


End file.
